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Entry date: 9-20-22 - Scary Stuff (at least for me) - Letters to My Friends

Dear Friends,

For a while now I have been dancing around with when and how to address certain aspects of my life that have weighed heavy on my soul. There is a part of me that feels like ergonomic mischief is mine to do whatever I want to do with it and share my story. There is also a part of me that feels like my own life does not completely belong to me.

I have experienced a fair amount of pain in my life. I know I am not alone in this but, like everyone, I need to heal this pain. I also don’t really know where to begin. There are certain parts of my life that I would like to write my way through and process them, but I am at a loss for where to start in terms of chronologically or the things that bother me the most.

The weight of the distance between Rhondi and I has made me very stressed of late. As I mentioned yesterday, the kids are driving me crazy a bit, but not in any terrible way. They are great kids, but they also take advantage of me when she is away. That part is on me, of course, and no one else. I make that bed.

Some of the beds, though, in my life that have not been made by me still bring me moments of real pain. There are wounds that are scarred over but still ache and hurt and make me wince. Again, I know I am not alone in this. Everyone I know has them. I do my best to be a good and loyal friend in helping the people I care about heal and learn and grow.

This is also my defense mechanism to not allow people to see what hurts or has hurt me. I know this. Occasionally someone will call me on it, too, and I will just deflect it back to dealing with whatever is bothering them. A friend said to me, fairly recently, something along the lines of how I am always there for others but who do I turn to for help.

Outside of Rhondi, and sometimes her dad, I really don’t. It’s not that I don’t know I have people I could turn to because I do. I have a few very good friends who I could turn to in a pinch and they would be there to listen and, if I asked for it, give me advice. I know this and if you’re reading this, you’re probably one of those people so know that I see you.

I’m just not very good about asking for help. I know this is something a lot of the people I loved deal with as well and this is because it sucks. I often feel like, at the age I am now, I should know how to handle most of the things I have to handle and, for the most part, I do. Sometimes, though, I don’t. I am learning that it is okay to feel this way and I am working on getting better at reaching out.

I’ve written in other blogs about being at a crossroads. It seems like 2022 is kind of one of those years. It seems that these crossroads situations are, in truth, a way of finding some balance in order to move forward. Perhaps the place I am at with my practice here, which is really about writing, is figuring out what the balance truly is in telling my stories. Whether it is what has actually happened or the stories in my brain that are ready to come out, I have to be in a place where I am being authentic.

In order to tell my truth, I have to tell it. It is as simple as that. I’m dancing around things now, even as I write about my need to not dance around them. What I need to learn is how to do this in a way that it is helpful to whoever reads it because that is what I really want, in the end, for this to be.

I have been incredibly selfish at times in my life. I live with this every day. I have deluded myself, a lot, in thinking that my acts of kindness and being a good, caring friend or family member create that balance I strive for, when I know that it is not quite possible. Stacking and burning karma is exhausting.

What I do not want is for this to ever feel like I am calling out people in my life on their shit as a way of lashing out at them. I do not want to hurt anyone or bring up things that may be painful or embarrassing to them. I will not, apparently, allow myself to go there today, but I do have to tell my story the way I have experienced it, too.

This cliff is precarious, and I am quite honestly scared of it.

So, here I am firing my warning shot off the bow. I’m going to get deep, I fear, in the coming months. Things may get bumpy and maybe not. I have to do so in order to find my balance. I hope I can do it with grace and in a way that, again, is helpful to those who read it. This is the first draft of my life story in so many ways.

I am who I am because of everything that has happened in my life, I suppose. The frown across my brow as I write this is probably an indicative of how scared I am of my own process here. If I have learned anything from the first eight and a half months of doing this it is this: As I unpack these memories, many more come from them. I go down personal rabbit holes and it’s the dark and spooky ones that I am peering into right now.

What’s going to happen next? I don’t know.

See you tomorrow.

I thought this was appropriate.

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