The Sublime

Through Hell

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Wed, 13 Dec 2017 09:12:00 +0000

My divorce has completely DESTROYED me. It came totally out of nowhere while I was completely and totally in love with him. I can't even think about filling that void. I've had a few stupid flings, because I'm human, but they just made me feel even emptier. They reminded me how much I miss the intimacy I shared with my husband. Or what I perceived as intimacy because right now I doubt any of his feelings for me were real. I'm pretty sure I was used.

Before him, I was married for 15 years and have two kids. I really believed both my marriages would last forever, until death do we part. I was in it for the long haul. I believed in marriage. But not anymore. Now I have to just be okay with being alone. That, in and of itself, is really hard for me to take. I love giving and receiving love. It's something I do well and something I felt I was meant to do, to be part of a couple and make a family, but it's never really worked out for me that way. I guess my own expectations and disappointment are bigger hurdles to overcome than the actual events which have occurred.

And the events are nothing short of tragic.

If I could somehow calm the raging typhoon of memories that obliterate me from the inside out, maybe I could find peace and maybe I could sleep. Because it even assaults me in my sleep. I'm afraid to dream. I am so, so tired of being broken and feeling like I wasn't good enough. All I want is answers. Time hasn't passed enough for me to get over this. I don't know how long it will take but it's going to take longer than this, much longer than this. I hope he knows what he's done and the destruction he's caused. Then again, that seems to be what he wants, for me to suffer. He knows I almost died yet he laughed at me. He laughed. This is how I know it's not me, because it takes a sick, sick motherfucker to laugh at someone's death.

I've never tried to kill myself before. I've been depressed before but never to the point of suicide. I still don't want to die, I never did, but I couldnt find any other way to stop the pain. There's nothing I can fine to stop it.

So I lost my shit; my middling bipolar went apeshit and I had a full blown manic episode where I cut my wrists and arms open in about 20 places then drove my car off the road at 120 mph. I don't remember any of it. I was brought by ambulance to the hospital and the only thing I remember is that my arms were bandaged and they were examining my bag for anything I could use to kill myself. They took everything but an old diaper and a jar of baby powder.

Since the hospital, I don't sleep. I was the problem patient wandering the halls at 4 am singing, that needed to be held down and shot with Thorazine, or whatever that magic knock-out cocktail is.

When I do sleep, I have nightmares. I'm trying to find John in the fog and it clears and I'm suddenly standing on a pier and he's on a sinking ship.

Or he's reaching for me through a tunnel and I can see his hand but can't quite reach.

Or Cullen is about to be hit by a car or a train and I can't get to him in time.

Just a few delightful examples.

I can't do much else but try to physically recover right now. I have lupus and fibromyalgia in addition to bipolar and PTSD and I need to have surgery on my cervical spine. Medically, I'm a total mess, really sad for a 45 year old woman who had been totally healthy.

I had a second manic episode recently, that had been working itself up over about ten days and then hit the fan. I loved throwing up on my friend Mary's lawn. I was visiting her and suddenly, I needed air. I ran out the front door and projectile vomited like four times all over the lawn while she chased me with a tray of crackers trying to stop the flow of vomit. It would be hysterical if it wasn't so pathetic.

I made a bunch of appointments for all my various ailments, my broke ass brain, my broke ass spine, and my broke ass immune system. Im trying to jam it all in before I lose my insurance. Then I'm fucked. The ex is in a big damn hurry to dump me and make sure my sick ass has no access to healthcare. I already failed to qualify for Medicaid. I need someone to help me. Looking at the instructions for medicaid or disability, I get so confused and can't actually read the writing. After two manic episodes and the loads of meds I take every day, my short term memory and comprehension is shot.

Words spin around into visual swirls and then I hear laughing. So I'm truly losing my shit. Auditory hallucinations are somewhat "normal" after a "manic event" and can be side effects of my meds, but I'm not okay with any of this.

I'm terrified.

My life as I knew it is over.

And not in a good way.

Chronic But Capable

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Mon, 19 Jan 2015 00:33:00 +0000

I put together these highly unreadable graphics to simply highlight the illnesses I am dealing with. Most of oh understand this, but I've had some troubles over the last week or so with several people accusing me of being lazy, trying to milk the system, feeling sorry for myself and being a drain on society.

I shouldn't have to justify that with a response but I will because I've led a very productive and incredible life up until now. I put myself through college and grad school myself, I've worked my entire adult life except for a few years I took to raise my kids, and I worked under difficult circumstances with very young disabled children which was physically demanding. I was on my kids school's PTA, I started a chess club that's was so popular we had to open a new space for it. I've raised money to bury my sons friend who died, collected furniture from multiple donors for a family in need who were having a baby. I taught CCD. I chaperoned every field trip. I homeschooled my children when it was clear they weren't having real success learning in school. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. But I'm not special, I'm just like all of you who have done and are doing these same things every day. I did all those things and always made every meal and kept the house as well as all types of tasks that we just take for granted. I did it happily for my family and I was always full of energy, being team mom for football and soccer and lacrosse and karate. Like all of you, I was THERE.

Now, I am sick. I never expected to ever be like this. I loved my life and worked hard but I loved every minute of it. I would give anything to be that person again. But I can't. And you would think that people who've known me and knew all I've done and known the enthusiasm and energy I had every day in support of my family would know better than to call me lazy and unmotivated. But with four major illnesses, all of which became 1000X worse when my husband left, I don't know what to do anymore but crawl across these hot coals that are my life to get to the other side and hope to GOD that at the end of this challenge there is relief for me so that j may return to being the woman I used to be.

My body hurts every day; my brain is a terribly frightening place. Sometimes I don't understand what's happening to me. I have memory loss and actual brain damage. I have severe joint degeneration and will need to have my neck, shoulder, other hip and both knees replaced at some point. And lupus is ravaging my organs, especially my kidneys. I'm afraid. I'm afraid I will never get my life back and that I'll never get to be that person again, but I'm trying each day to make even small steps forward. One thing is certain, I will NEVER STOP FIGHTING. I have days where I think I want to kill myself, more often than anyone would ever believe. But I fight it. So to the few who think that I am LAZY, I challenge you to spend one day living my life and let me know how lazy I am. It is possible to live a good life with these debilitating diseases but have to fight hard every day for it. Because if that, i have incredible compassion for other's pain. So don't think this is all about me, it's about all of us who suffer and are judged by those who are on the outside thinking they have the right to judge. LAZY is the last thing I would call anyone who has to fight their body every single day.

A-Z April Blogger Challenge: O is for OBSERVATIONS

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 16:17:00 +0000

I think most people have no idea how good they really have it.

I think illness is the body’s way of reminding you that you’re still alive and that you might still have a chance to change things for the better.

I think all men should know how to cook.

I think all women should know how to make basic repairs to their car.

I think real love is the only thing worth fighting for. Everything else is negotiable.

I think divorce is rampant because we rely on everything being disposable, from paper cups to cheap cars. Nobody wants to work hard anymore.

I think John is the most amazing man I have ever met.

I think having children is much more of a responsibility and a joy than anyone could ever explain to you when you’re young.

I think bleeding once a month is a small price to pay for the privilege of being a woman.

I think the public school system really IS leaving our kids behind…and that homeschooling should be a much more popular option than it currently is.

I think all children should be taught self-sufficiency from the time they are very young.

I think dogs are really the best friends you can have, unless there is a wild animal or fresh meat that is distracting them. Then they can be total assholes.

I think I’m actually a much better person than I give myself credit for.

I think I look pretty good for my age.

I think our country isn’t any more of a mess than it’s ever been.

I think it’s about time we normalized relations with Cuba.

I think it’s time to stop using oil and convert to renewable energy.

I think a little socialism isn’t always a bad thing.

I think someone is going to leave me a nasty comment because I mentioned ‘socialism.’

I think capitalism in the

United States

has reached its ceiling.

I think it’s a relief that combat troops are finally OUT of Iraq.

I think it’s ridiculous that we’re only NOW fighting the war in Afghanistan that we needed to fight 10 years ago!

I think the fact that I can grow things that my family can actually eat is a miracle.

I think the fact that most people DON’T grow their own food anymore is a sad consequence of modern life and should be encouraged.

I think organized religion is the downfall of humanity.

I think art and music make life so much more beautiful!

I think that life is so much easier than we make it out to be.

And I think we are our own worst enemies.

A-Z April Blog Challenge - N is for: Namaste, Baby!

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 12:15:00 +0000

i honor that place in you

where the whole Universe resides.

let me love you

widely and deeply.

I have been so blessed

let me share my abundance.

draw from deep inside me

for i have enough to give,

more than enough

for you to share.

you need never suffer again

not sadness nor fear .

distance need never keep us apart again

for we can exist inside one another.

when you feel like you're lost and alone,

like you are drifting and falling,

burning in the atmosphere,

i am around you.

in the very air you breathe

and before you fall to earth,

i will catch you.

Mosul 3504

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 16:15:00 +0000

The phone is ringing, the baby is crying, the dog is scratching to go out. I glance at the caller ID to see if I really need to answer and I realize it's out of the country. Baby is on one hip; I pop a pacifier in her mouth for a moment's quiet so I can get the phone.

It's not my husband because the country code isn't the same. 035 - it's from Italy. Oh no. Oh no. My husband's command is based in Italy. There's only one reason they would be calling me and it's not a good reason.

All of that flashes through my head in a millisecond.

I answer the phone. Hesitantly.

"Is this Mrs. L." says an unfamiliar female voice.

"Yes." I swallow hard to push the lump forming in my throat but it doesn't help. "Yes it is. Who's calling?"

"This is Col. Whatshername. Do you have a few moments to talk?"

"Yes. Yes!"

It's the wing commander and she's calling me for some reason. My heart is pounding so hard I worry she can hear it through the phone.

I strap the baby into her bouncy seat and flick on Sesame Street and hope that keeps her happy for just a few minutes until I can get to the bottom of this. I fling the door open and let the dog out too. I just want some quiet so I can hear the Colonel over the roaring in my ears.

I wander a little ways away from the sounds of Elmo and sit down. "Is everything ok?" I ask her. Note to self - do not ask questions if you don't really want the answers.

"We wanted to inform you of an incident that occurred in Mosul earlier today, about 10 am their time."

"I'm assuming this involved my husband." My tone is flat.

"Yes, ma'am. Maj. L. was involved in the incident. As far as we know right now, his injuries are not life-threatening...." her voice trailed off.

Injuries????

At least he wasn’t dead.

Ok. Focus.

"Can you please tell me what you know? What happened?"

"Yes, ma'am I can tell you all I know, which isn't too much. At around 1000 hours there were two trucks travelling in a caravan through downtown Mosul. Maj. L was in the follow vehicle, rear driver's side seat. The caravan was ambushed by an improvised explosive device which took out the lead vehicle. At that point, gunmen opened fire on the two vehicles. What we can discern is that the four individuals in the lead vehicle were injured but able to vacate the vehicle and make a run for the vehicle still in operation. Maj. L. opened his door at that time to allow the team to enter the vehicle and several shots were fired inside. All we know is that he sustained injuries at that time, but the team was successful in entering and securing the vehicle and they immediately returned to base."

Someone shot my husband. That's all I could think.

Some mother fucker shot my husband. Who the fuck did he think he was shooting my husband? What did he do to him? Yes, I know it's a war, but suddenly it seemed so......so PERSONAL.

Why are you shooting at him? At our friends? What the hell is wrong with you that you just randomly shoot people you don't know? They're riding around in your country protecting your citizens and you try to kill them. Why?

Even as a well-read individual who is well-versed in the geopolitics of the Middle East, I am still having this very basic, visceral reaction.

My blood turns to ice in my veins as I envision what she is telling me.

"Is he hospitalized?" is all I can think of to say.

"It's unclear if he has been treated and released or if he is being flown to Landstuhl (a very large Army hospital in Germany where the worst casualties of the war are taken and treated) We have no information right now as to the extent of his injuries."

Suddenly I picture my husband bleeding from everywhere; I imagine the worst possible scenes, of bullets entering the truck, of him being struck and his blood bouncing off the glass. I envision it tearing through his skin, the skin I know so well. How could someone do this?

"When will you know more?" I am asking annoying questions, I'm sure, but I need to know.

"I'm sorry ma'am. This is all we know right now. As soon as we know more we'll get back to you. I'm very sorry." She sounds genuinely sorry and it turns out that we actually know her and have had dinner with her before. I just don't remember right now because I'm preoccupied.

"Ok, ok. Well, thank you so much." I hang up, bewildered what to do next. Do I call someone? I think of calling 911 but realize of course that is insane. Who do I call? Should I call his parents? My parents? I have to tell someone! I have to get more information. I run to my laptop to see if he's online. Sometimes I can catch him on instant messenger. But he's not there. There are no emails either. All I have is this phone call, which has fallen in my lap like a bomb.

The baby sees me and starts kicking. She spits out her pacifier and I can tell she wants "up." I pick her up and sit on the couch rocking her in my arms. Then I begin to cry. It is one of the first times I have cried since this deployment started. I haven't had TIME to cry. I haven't had the energy to cry; I have two young children to care for and who need me desperately. But now I unload months and months of tears that have been building behind my eyes. It is so bad that I've developed a lump on my eyeball that no one seems to be able to figure out. I figure it's just my aneurysm finally starting.

The crying feels almost good, a release that I badly needed, but I can't seem to stop and get a hold of myself. The baby doesn't notice, but I still feel guilty crying all over her.

These are weird thoughts. But my brain is straining to make sense of what's happening. I am so disturbed and anxious and agitated that after my son gets home from school, I pack up a small bag with some of our things and drive to my parents' house for a long weekend. I need something, some support, some love, someone to tell me this is going to be okay. I have NO IDEA if it's going to be okay since I have NO IDEA what kind of injuries he has. And I feel so fucking helpless because there is nothing I can do. I don't even know where he is.

I don't DARE tell my son! I just tell him we are going for a nice visit to see Nana and Pop, to spend some time with them and get a change of scenery. I hope this doesn't shake his routine too much and cause him anxiety but if I don't do this for myself, I won't be much of a mother to him or his sister, and that will be MUCH worse than a disrupted routine. He has been devastated by his father's deployment and we have to have an elaborate routine for all of his daily needs; everything has a little ritual, like he's OCD. It's a coping mechanism that he needs right now and that's okay, because he's coping.

At bed time, we kiss daddy's picture goodnight and he listens to daddy read a story on a tape that daddy made before he went away.

On his nightstand is a big plastic jar filled with exactly as many Hershey kisses as there are to be days to daddy's deployment. Every night, he gets a "kiss from daddy". As time goes on, he gets a visual of how much time is passing and how long until daddy comes home. The jar is getting lower and I had been feeling lighter, as if we were just about in the clear with a little over a month left. I guess I got too cocky. Karma has decided to kick my ass.

Anyway, going to my parents' turns out to be a good idea. My mom and dad heap the love and attention on the kids, knowing my nerves are shot. They baby me a little with seafood takeout from my favorite place. They seem inconsolable, however, that they can't do more. They know they can't take the pain away. They know I just want to know what happened to my husband.

But right now, all I can do is wait.

Letting Go

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 15:17:00 +0000

I've worked hard to dig out the root of the fear in my life and to let it go. I've identified some key moments in my life that I think are the cause of much of it ; just recognizing that is a breakthrough. But I took it a step further and did my best to forgive myself, forgive those who have hurt me and to take a deep breath and let GO of the things that have hurt me in the past.

You see, the thing is, I can't afford to live there anymore and I can't afford to have all of it coming forward blanketing me in negativity. Suppressing it is not the answer; bringing it out into the light, staring at it, letting it hurt and then saying, "It's okay, it's over now." -- THAT goes a long way towards healing.

I refuse to stay stuck in old patterns. Instead, I stand ready to remain open to all the love in my life, which is present in so many forms. I am creating the reality around me that will bring me that which I seek...and in fact, in many ways I've already done that. I've discovered that I am the soul I've been seeking, I am the soul I've been longing to connect with. Everything I need and everything I could want is already inside me. It’s that way for all of us, we’re all self-contained, perfectly proportioned units of everything we could ever want and need out of life. All we need do is look INSIDE rather than outside for our own answers.

Releasing an attachment to outcomes is extremely difficult, but if I'm to stay emotionally honest with myself then it's time I exercised this power; or rather, that I relinquished such tight control over how things turn out. I don't have the power to determine how anyone else feels about me or about the circumstances of anyone’s life. What I do have the power to do is to open my life to possibilities, to stand ready to embrace whatever comes, to remain unattached to the outcome by trusting that God or the universe actually does know better than I.

My conviction is thus: I will surrender to the flow as life begins to unfold before me. I am at peace. I am complete with who I am and where I am in my life even if I am sad or suffering,. This kind of inner contentment has been a long time coming. I am grateful, ever so grateful, for all that I've been given. No matter what happens, I refuse to fear and I refuse to place my fears (in the guise of expectation and disappointment) on anyone else. This life, when all is said and done, is all about love. Love is meant to be unconditional, unobstructed and unending. It is not based on any pretext or subversive desire; it is founded only in the power of what is good...because where there is love, there can no longer be fear. So today I am letting go. No more fear. Only love.

Joey

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 16:21:00 +0000

JOEY

In the scheme of things, this is not my loss to grieve. There is a family. There are children. And a wife. There are brothers and parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews and friends and all the usual acquaintances. This is THEIR loss to grieve, not mine. Yet there is something unique and grievous that I feel, something quiet and simmering that doesn’t deserve a card or sympathy of any kind. Rather, it is the kind of loss that tugs a little stronger at the heart than the usual evening news and leaves behind a little hole of silence where once there was a small flutter.

Joey was my first love. We all have one. Joey was mine.

Joey was killed in a car accident yesterday. He was horribly and violently ripped from life and thrust into whatever comes next, probably before he even realized what was happening. In doing so, he leaves behind an entire life of people who will need to grieve deeply and learn to function without him. I have no such pretense. It’s been 20 years or more since I’ve even seen him. But his memory occupies a space in me that died just a little with him and it’s not something I can easily ignore.

There was a group of us, all friends in some way and we watched each other grow from children into young adults. Joey was part of that group. To me, he always stood a little taller than the other boys, always looked a little different, always gave me a different feeling. Only when I became a teenager did I realize it was because I had a raging crush on Joey. Everything about him made me swoon. He was a little bigger than the other boys, broad shouldered and tall and muscular. He had blonde curls and a wicked smile. He was a little devious, intense and secretive, but when he let you into his world, it felt like you had won the golden ticket.

I remember the way he made me feel more than I really remember HIM. It’s been so many years that many of the details of him have faded. The man he had become is vastly unknown to me. There were some vague reconnections across social media and through mutual friends over the years, but nothing broad or deep or even that direct and, to be honest, I had no expectations otherwise. But deep inside me, there still lives the boy who made me swim in lust and admiration and excitement and fear. There still lives in me the young girl who leapt at him and drank in whatever he was willing to share. He was the one who made me feel things that I didn’t know I was capable of. He was the one who introduced me to what it felt like to be a woman. He scared me and made me a little crazy and he left something of himself in me that transcends time and distance.

Through time and in this real life, I never expected to see him again. But somewhere in me is still that girl that longed, just for a moment, to feel again the way I once did in his presence. First love is personal and universal all at once. It’s beautiful and fragile and it lingers on inside of us long after the feelings have subsided. It leaves an opening to that moment when we discover that love is so much more than we ever imagined; it leaves behind tiny footprints of who we were that show us the path to how we 've become who we ARE. First love is tragic in its essence because it almost NEVER lasts, but it does live forever inside of us. It breathes the innocence of youth.

The finality of Joey’s death takes something away from that. It locks a door that has always been left slightly ajar.

With Joey goes a little more of my youth, a little bit of optimism, a little bit of the expansiveness that first love brings. Joey’s death brings a familiar but sad reminder that all of life is fleeting and that the moments we cherish never actually do come around again. It reminds me that it’s important to tell people how they make us feel, especially when those feelings are loving, rather than waiting until they’re gone. It reminds me that, if I’m being honest with myself, none of us actually really understands why we’re living this life in the first place. It forces me to stare down the black hole of uncertainty that surrounds life and death and ponder the nature of why we’re here, why do we feel such joy only to lose it just as quickly? Why do we live moments that we never get back again? Why do we long for a past that we can embrace no more than a thin fog? This is the luxury of thought that comes with the type of grief that doesn’t rock your entire world, but rather refocuses life through different lenses.

My heart aches for Joey’s family. I’ve been through my share of sorrows in this life to know well how loss tears the fabric of your life into shards. The simple act of restitching your life back together takes the effort of Sisyphus, constantly pushing the boulder up the mountain only to have it roll back down again. And when you finally reconstruct the pieces of you into something resembling a life again, you discover it doesn’t resemble anything you’ve ever known before. It can be good. It can be bad. It can be emotionally eviscerating. For Joey's family, it will hurt forever. Over time, my sadness over Joey’s death will level out and I will stop coming back to it 100 times a day. Maybe next week, I’ll only think of it 50 times a day, and the week after only 20 times. But when I come back to visit that place inside me where Joey and my first love reside, something will always be missing.

Rest in peace, Joey, and know you were loved.

Intersection

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 02:40:00 +0000

I just realized that in order to really write, I need to write from the place where my humanity intersects with my divinity. At all times. That intersection is entirely unique for each of us. We all have something beautiful to say.

Releasing the Story

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 19:46:00 +0000

Sometimes I think about the journey I’ve taken from *there to here* and I want to tell the whole thing. I want to detail the fall and the stumble and the final moment when I uprighted myself and, though exhausted, dragged myself across the distance to become the person I wanted to become. I want to tell the whole story of meeting someone who rocked my world and expose every nuance and emotion and ponder it endlessly for you. But I think there are really good reasons that I haven’t done this, one of the largest of which is that in the pondering there is the possibility of becoming stuck. While my world has been busy being rocked, the last thing I’ve wanted to do is ponder it or write about it. I want to FEEL it, to experience every last drop of it, to pour it all over myself and roll on the ground in it like a dog. I want the experience to mark me with its scent.

Being a writer is a strange experience because if you’re not writing, you’re not exactly a writer. But often when you’re writing, you’re not living. You’re holed up alone with your laptop or your pen or whatever instruments of writing torture make you tingle. You shun the world and immerse yourself in a narrow tunnel of your own thoughts and characters and ideas and emotions. You cull and you trim and you think and rethink until your mind is numb. Then you go back and do it all over again. But you’re not out living, per se, at least not as much as you could be. The writing takes some of your life from you. It needs to in order to give birth to itself. And in not allowing the thoughts that space and time to come out, it will render you incapacitated. The creations trapped inside the artist will eventually kill the artist if not given an escape route. So I find myself in a constant tug of war between writing and living. I can’t seem to do both at once. And when I can, I find I’m doing them both half-assed, which is not something I take pride in.

I wonder about writers who actually write for a living, as opposed to someone like me, who writes, if for no other reason, than to stay alive. What is it like to discipline yourself to sit down day after day and write, while maintaining the rest of life around you? Where do you find ideas to write about while life is busy going on around you? How do you revel in the flow? How can you meet deadlines for editors if your creativity is on temporary hiatus? How do you avoid garnering that ‘artistic temperament’ label from those close to you when you’re pouring your soul into your work every single day?

There is a collection of books called The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It began with the simple book itself and has launched into a phenom all its own. But the basic ideas are there for soulful artists to attempt to reign in their craft and become disciplined enough to learn how to make a living doing it. If nothing else, she shows how artists can relieve the pain of keeping everything locked inside by using disciplined artistic outbursts. As someone who is tired of holding it in and who is tired of working at jobs for which I have no love, I take this very seriously. I maintain the belief that there must be a way to do what I love while a) earning a living at it and b) not losing my mind in the process.

So here I sit. The story is ready to tell itself. It’s been waiting for release from this cage I keep it in. It’s starting to burst forth in the form of little holes piercing the dam of my resistance. I’ve had my fingers plugging everything shut. Now it’s time to let go and let it pour.

The Hook

noreply@blogger.com (Eileen Dougherty) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 06:26:00 +0000

Sometimes I wonder why I write, why I'm bothering with a new blog. I mean, really, why? It seems so self-indulgent. I can come up with all kinds of reasons for it, such as I like writing, which is totally true. Or I could say it's because I'm working to process things in my head and I need to get them out somehow so I don't explode. That's a pretty good reason, too and very true. But the essence, the RAW TRUTH of why I really write this blog is that, for me, it's a hook.

What am I trying to catch with this hook?

YOU.

I'm not fishing for anything other than YOU, the person reading this right now. I write for you, because I want to get to know you, I want you to reply, I want to know what you think too. I am always interested in poking open what is raw, what is painful. I like to agitate, I like to irritate. I like to explore the things that people would rather keep covered up. I expose some of my deepest, biggest flaws when I write because I want YOU to know you are not alone in your imperfection, you are not alone in your failures and your sadness. Every single one of us stumbles, falls and sometimes has a hard time picking ourselves back up again.

Do I ever write about happy things? Happiness, to me, doesn't require as much exploration. People don't feel the need to dissect happiness as much as they dissect their pain. Because when you're happy, it seems so precarious that you don't want to touch it for fear it might crumble. It's like not looking that gift horse in the mouth for fear of getting bitten. Don't poke the laughing Buddha in the belly or he might die.
Anyway, that's what came bubbling to the surface tonight as I questioned my motives for writing YET ANOTHER blog. Why do I write? It's because I want to pull you in, to know what you think, to hear your stories. I'm not very adept at asking people personal questions, mainly because I believe if someone wants to tell you something personal, they'll open up themselves. I was raised not to pry and to respect another's silence. Just one of my peculiarities. If you wanted me to know personal things about you, I have faith that you would just tell me. But it also tells me that I'm addicted to the hook in some way, that I love the interaction, the reactions, even the rude ones! I love the sweet comments, the poems written in response to a post, or the really in depth explanations about some philosophical topic. I love the GIRL POWER when a female friend backs me up, and the kindness of friends who recognize when I'm feeling raw. Most of all, I love when YOU share your stories with me, your triumphs, your failures, your personal experiences -- all without me having to ask. I love the sharing! I think your stories are fascinating, probably why I love reading blogs, and I love to draw them out of you with my thoughts, without having to actually ASK for them. Instead, I strive to inspire you to reach into your own mind and then reach out to me and to everyone in communion, to share.

We learn it when we're in Kindergarten and it remains the single most important lesson throughout life: Sharing is good. We can share together, my thoughts for yours, my stories for your stories. We'll learn a lot along the way.