Confessions

That's quite a title for a first entry.  But, after all, this blog-form allows for a certain sense of anonymity.  I want this to be a place where the truth can be told.  Emotions explored.  I want to figure myself out.  And it's really okay if I have an audience.  It's not like I'm standing front-center in a room full of eyes.  You're all just ghosts scrolling across some other screen, right?

Take me as I am.  I'm all here.  Comment if you can relate.  Comment if you have something meaningful to say.  Hell, say hello if that's all you want to tell me.  But, sometimes, I'd like to know you're there.  That at least, someone, somewhere, is reading me.  I guess that's all most of us want (who write via blogs) is to believe we aren't just another insignificant.

The breakdown:  I'm in my early thirties.  Bi-polar.  My life is rittled with a series of mood swings and silly anxieties.  Shhh.  Don't judge me.  I've been in a relationship for three years...but now my eye is wandering.  I'm always wandering...and struggling to stay rooted.  That is the enigma of this life for me, it seems.  I am a starving artist/writer/hippie chick.  I am also a mother. Many of these life roles never cross one another.  It's exhausting to be so many people, to be so secret.  But that is me.  And I do everything exceptionally well...a perfectionist, the therapists always said.  Except, I don't see any of them anymore (the therapists).  All my relationships are satisfied.  All lines are said.  At the end of the day nothing is left undone...except for myself.

And that is why I write.  That is where this blog comes in.  This is the place where I can undress the things I have to say, decipher my true nakedness from all the shit I have to wear everyday. 

My mind is a cesspool of unlived wishes, star-crossed desires.  The will to break out of this old skin.  Music relieves some of this need...or is relieved bad word usage?  Music allows me to inhabit these experiences in a way that makes sense.  A way that feels good.  Just the way writing is an outlet.  Or photography.  Or sitting in an empty room screaming.  They all work in the same way, in the fact that I can empty this vessel of my mind, give flight to my feeligs so they no longer weigh me down.  Dream on paper, dream to the beat of someone else's writing.  I'll be sharing all that here...the poems that touch me.  The songs that pull me back and up...the memories attributed to the lyrics. 

And all my confessions.  Long, drawn and perfunctatory amid the midnight hours while everyone else sleeps and my dreams keep me from slumber.

I'm a mess, I'll admit.  But, usually, I wouldn't want to change this.  Not the mania, nor the lows....okay, the lows don't have to get that low (though they usually do).

Be my friend.  Hold my proverbial hand.  Read with me as I write.  That's really all any writer could ask for.