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Written today 2/28/17

There are people who know me in real life who don't like to read my blog. I don't blame them for this, nor do I expect everyone who knows me to read it or want to read it or even be interested that it exists. One reason someone has given me is that it feels intrusive to read it, even as he acknowledges that I'm putting it out there so I must think it's ok for people to read it. Another reason someone I know has trouble with it is that sometimes it is so painful to read, especially when I write about feeling depressed or about how hard things are.

I have struggled with how to write this blog because it is all deeply personal but I don't want it to be my diary. I have kept journals for decades, on and off. I think journaling is actually necessary for my well-being and I don't do it much these days because it gets crossed off the list in favor of other tasks, other pastimes. Even though it is essential. Not only do I think journaling improves my writing but it also helps me get some of the junk out, some of the raw emotion that I just need to get out but not necessarily share with the internet. It feels dramatic to write share with the world! Ha. But it is in essence sharing with the world, no matter how many people currently read my blog, because it will be out there for anyone to find at any time. My kids could read all this some day. Or future employers. Or constituents if I ever decide to run for office. Ack.

I have also struggled, often and in an ongoing way, with feeling too serious. Too intense. Not fun. The book I chose for my neighborhood book club last night was about a woman dying of cancer. Among other things. I mean, she wasn't dying of others things, the book was about many other things. Because of course death and dying is also about life and quotidian tasks and relationships. I was momentarily embarrassed. . .no not embarrassed but taken aback to hear the other members react to the depressing choices I make in our group. The familiar "What is wrong with me?" voice piped up in me. Why so serious? Why not more fun and free-spirited and light-hearted? Why didn't I think the book was depressing? What does that say about me?

Reading through my old posts as I hit Publish, I am struck by how often I mention feeling depressed. Especially the last one where I talk about wanting to run away. It's scary to put that out there, not because I feel scared by that feeling but because I feel scared and worried about how the people who love me will feel. I worry about that a lot--how will me telling the truth make others feel? Or, what if I say this out loud and then feel differently tomorrow? How will the people who I talk to handle that? How will they know what is real?

I am an up and down kind of woman. I often wish to be more even-keel. But that's not me.

This is not my journal. It is my art. Sometimes my art veers into too much journaling, too raw. And that is one of the main reasons I get scared to post certain things. I want to sit on them, wait to edit them more, take stuff out. Make them make sense. But not today. Today is raw, unfilted posting. I'm feeling kinda ack about it. But onward we go. This break is to assure the people who love me that I am ok. I am not sunk in a depression. And it's ok if you don't want to read it, no matter what the reason.