Blogging Again

Playing: "I Should Live in Salt" - The National

I've decided to blog the way that I used to in my teens and early 20s.  Like I used to do on Blogger, complete with what I'm listening to as I write--assuming I'm listening to anything.

This is why I needed the cleaner slate.  It felt like this blog had become one thing and I needed it to be something else.  I need somewhere where I can dump my brain.  Sure, I have a journal, but I am still most comfortable unloading my life into a little box that contains a publish button.  I suppose that's my performer heart that needs to know that there's an audience.

There's something very comforting about turning back to blogging.  I've done it for 17 years now.  It's one of the few things that I have done consistently for that long.  It may be the only thing I've done consistently for that long.  I guess if you include my journals and my blogs, writing about myself is the only thing I've ever done consistently.  Period.  Does that make me wildly ego driven?

There's something special about turning into oneself and trying to piece together the chaos within.  I've been avoiding doing that lately because it's too chaotic and I'm afraid, but I think it's taking a toll on my health.  I need to do this.  There aren't a lot of things that I feel I need to do, but right now, blogging is one of them.

I'm not sure why blogging, though.  I've been thinking about my beautiful black and gold Alice's Adventures In Wonderland Moleskine journal, but it repels me.  Every time I pick it up, I feel afraid.  Every time I pick it up, I feel like there's somewhere else I need to be writing right now.

That somewhere else is here.

My life is a mess right now.  I am on leave from work for 4 weeks and am at the psychiatry offices so often that the receptionists know my face.  Yesterday one of them remarked that I sure had a lot of appointments for one day.  My inbox is clogged with emails from my service provider.  I have appointment reminder cards and mailers strewn and stuffed around my apartment.  I have a folder fat with receipts and work status notes.  My neck and shoulders are perpetually tensed from anxiety.  It feels like someone tried to backcomb my insides.  Sometimes even breathing feels too hard.

But writing helps.  Words still come.  My thoughts may not be profound, but they're my thoughts and I need to get them out somewhere.  Here.

It feels good to be blogging again.