I wrote the other day that writing is like breathing for me. It’s something I do to stay alive. Something I can’t not do. The fact of my writing is not evidence that things are easy for me, or that things are going well. It’s evidence that I’m not dead yet.
Similarly, the topics about which I write are poor indicators of my internal psychic landscape. Sometimes, of course, they reflect what I’m thinking about, where my head is, where my heart is. Other times, though, they don’t. Other times, the topics I choose are designed to take me far from what’s truly consuming me. They’re chosen to distract me, to allow me to go on when it otherwise would be impossible.
I’ve written a few times about the difficulties of getting to know me through this blog, of the vast portion of psychic terrain that’s structurally excluded from here. I rarely write about my family, except insofar as I write about my role in it. I rarely write about my feelings about people, other than my sexual feelings. By reading this blog, you might well be forgiven for imagining that I’m a sex-obsessed pervert who thinks of nothing else, who is amoral, even sociopathic.
I can’t stop you from reaching those conclusions. I’m not even, honestly, all that interested in trying to stop you from reaching them. All I say is this: if those are your opinions, you’re incorrect.
In the years before I wrote this blog, I often was out of control of my life, ruled by my desires, ignorant of, or indifferent to, the impact of my actions on others – on those I loved, and on those I hardly knew. This blog has served, continues to serve, a vital purpose for me. I’m not perfect. I still lose control of myself from time to time. But this blog, my writing here, is a lever I use to lift myself out of the depths, to channel energy and emotions that simply will out into more productive, or, at least, less destructive, endeavors. Sometimes, alas, what I write here hurts people, either because of what I say or because of what I don’t. I wish it weren’t so. It’s a cost of my having developed this particular way of staying sane.
And if that has affected you, or someone you care about, in a negative way, I’m terribly sorry. I implore you: if what I write causes you pain, please don’t read it; if what I don’t write about causes you pain, please don’t look for it here, because I may never give you what you seek. And the fact that I don’t is information not about what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, but instead, about how I’m coping.
Which is, after all, what I’m doing, what we’re all doing.