When I very first started blogging, I mean nearly a decade ago when blogs weren’t the hip thing they are today, I blogged mostly poems with a few short stories here and there. Poems were my way of saying what I really felt, without really saying anything at all.
For example, packed away in a random box is a random notebook with a random poem hidden inside. This poem describes a vicious monster eating someone alive. It’s not as gory as implied, I promise. In reality, the poem has literally nothing to do with a monster or of being eaten alive. It is merely something I wrote describing my first heartbreak. It is intended to be interpreted as one wishes to interpret it, thus keeping what it is truly about a secret. At this time blogs were not a thing and I had maybe two followers. The blog itself has been lost in the depths of passing time.
The second blog I had was a typical mommy blog. By now blogging had become a thing and although my blog was absolutely hilarious and even began gaining a decent crowd of followers, it was still competing in a sea of millions of other mommy blogs. Honestly, I think mommy blogs are essentially what made blogging itself popular and I’ve read and even follow some superb mommy blogs, but I just wasn’t up for that level of competition. And really, I’m a lot more than just a mommy and have a lot more to talk about than just mommy things.
Then there was my third shot at this blogging thing. This blog. I struggled when I began this blog. I struggled with deciding to remain anonymous or allow people who know me to realize it was I behind the blog. I struggled with a name. I struggled with finding my voice. I struggled with always being truthful, not reverting to hiding my true feelings in hidden interpretations. Mostly though, I struggled with choosing a genre. Every good blog fits a genre. This allows readers or potential readers to know what they will find when they are on the blog. This creates a box for your blog to neatly fit in to.
I didn’t want to fit in a box.
After much deliberation, I slowly realized that I was already creating the ‘theme’ of my blog. Reflections. Reflecting what I observed in the world around me. Reflecting what I felt on the inside. Reflecting what so many others were thinking and feeling and fearing as well. And so was born… Rah’s Mirror.
Time jump to the here and now….
Lately I’ve began feeling hopeless, depressed. Everything I tried to do was a process and every time it left me with the short end of the stick. I was frustrated. I felt wronged. I felt hopeless and depressed… and my blog reflected that.
I’ve noticed the last few days, well the last week-ish or so, my view counts are dropping. Really, who wants to hear someone pissing and moaning about life all the time? No body wants to hear it anymore. No body cares anymore. This morning I didn’t even care. I didn’t care if you didn’t care. I didn’t care if you didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t care if everyone stopped reading.
I was miserable. My life sucked. And I could cry about it if I wanted to.
So I did. I cried a 4,047 word post all about it. And I didn’t even toss in how every ‘proof’ since the accident is wrong or how I can’t get proper medical treatment because I have no primary doctor or how my wage loss pay was cut before I even got it because a doctor who has never even met me and who knew nothing of the accident wrote a return to work slip for my insurance agency or, or, or.
I haven’t cleaned like I typically do for days. I haven’t played with my children. Shoot, I’ve hardly even been nice to my children. I’ve barely talked to my husband. I’ve barely blogged. And the only reason I’ve followed up on the list of phone calls and paperwork I have had to deal with on a daily basis is because I can’t stand to hear the nagging and unspoken disapproval from my husband. (Which I logically believe is a non-existent result of my brains lack of proper interpretation skills and he truly means nothing negative, but emotionally I must deal with none the less.)
Frankly, I was on the verge of simply giving up on everything…and I just didn’t really even care.
I nearly deactivated my Facebook, which I barely get on lately anyway. I nearly deleted my blog. I nearly wiped myself from the world wide web so that I could curl up in my shell and hate the world like I wanted to. I wasn’t suicidal or anything. Shoot, I haven’t been suicidal since 2005. I just was very quickly running out of fight. I had no more give in me. The world would continue to fuck me over and I would just roll over and accept it.
And then something interesting happened….
Have you heard about the effects of adrenaline? Or survival strength as I like to refer to it? This is when someone is faced with dying and are filled with an immeasurable amount of strength that no man normally possesses.
For example, when my sister was seven years old she witnessed a man drop a cement filled picnic table on our mother. The table had to have weighed no less than 500 pounds. My sister was always a scrawny little kid, at seven this was no different. She picked that table up, allowing our mom to get out from under it. People have been heard to have lifted cars off of their children. Carry people twice their weight out of burning buildings. All of these are examples of the rush of adrenaline that is supplied to your body in certain life and death situations, or survival strength.
I think that the tiny little, quickly dying part of me that is strong, compassionate, loving, forgiving, optimistic, hard working, ambitious, and believes in an overall goodness in the world, used it’s last breath to conjure up it’s internal survival strength. I began fighting for what I didn’t even feel like fighting for anymore. I got up and cleaned the living room and swept the kitchen and dining room. I sat staring at a blank blog screen, unable to type the optimistic post I knew that I need to, but just wasn’t feeling. I began reading other blogs and happened upon just the right posts that I needed to read. The posts that reminded me that all growth comes through struggle. That the way we are looking at things is the way we are going to see them. That if the world around you is lacking kindness, to be that kindness. And so forth and so on.
The tiny little quickly dying part of me used it’s last breath to fight to keep ‘me’ alive.
I’ve never been more happy for the creation of survival strength. I began to reflect on the deeper truths of so many things. I reflected on who I wanted to strive to be. I reflected on how ungrateful I was being, how much of a pity-party I was throwing. I reflected on the horrible behavior of my children lately, my husband lately, my friends lately, and even those two individuals who cast me aside like last weeks left over macaroni and cheese. I reflected on my part in their behaviors. I reflected on the troubles I was bringing into my days, my life, just by the downward spiral my thoughts, my frustrations, my giving up, were creating. I reflected on my blog and my dwindling view counts. I reflected on what the essence of my blog was intended to be and on what I was allowing it to actually become. I reflected on how my life was intended to be and on what I was allowing that to actually become. I reflected on everything I had control over changing and I realized…
I had control over an awful lot. Control that I was blindly letting others have. Others dictate. Others create.
And I said to myself, “Self, this is a bunch of horseshit. Get off your ass, out of your head, and fix it already.”
Of course, it’s a lot easier said then done. But what isn’t, really?
It’s going to take actively seeking motivation and support. It’s going to be doing things that are the last things I feel like doing. It’s going to be correcting negative thoughts with forced positive thoughts. It’s going to be work, but it’s going to be done.
The alternative, that’s just not an option….