There are so many things I want to remember, but can't. There are so many things I remember but wonder, did it really happen that way? Did it happen at all? I heard on a podcast that every time we think about a memory, it changes that memory's neurological fingerprint in our brain's tissue so that the memory then becomes a slightly different memory than what actually occurred. And the change effect is even more pronounced when we speak of a memory to others in the form of telling a story. So how do we remember without corrupting the memory? Do we even dare speak of memories at all? Are any of our memories true?

A poem and the self-indulgent thesis I wrote in response to it from this February that I just found in my drafts

The following began as an email to a friend in February of 2020. Probably for the same tired reasons I never blogged again after that first post 5 years ago, I never sent that email. I found it in my drafts half a year later, realized it will be helpful to read in the future, and might even help others feel less alone - so I'm posting it here instead. Enjoy. (But don't get your hopes up I am the run-on sentence queen and my writing style is, well, less than impeccable.)

--

I’m reflecting lately on this poem Science Mike shared. I wanted to share it with you.

I

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

II

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place.
But, it isn't my fault.
It still takes me a long time to get out.

III

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in. It's a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault. I get out immediately.

IV

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

V

I walk down another street.

― Portia Nelson, There's a Hole in My Sidewalk: The Romance of Self-Discovery 

On first read this applies so obviously to any of my multiple maladaptive behaviors that have become deep grooves of established habits/patterns for me. But as I think more about it, I realize I deserve to acknowledge a far deeper change in me that I see reflected in this poem.

There were years I didn’t go anywhere, didn’t let myself be seen by anyone. I just hid at home behind the excuse of that “SAHM-life,” silently shrinking away into a shell of a person. In November of 2016 an old friend came to stay with me, and I think that was a turning point. My self isolation had gotten really bad before then, but sitting with my friend late into several nights getting caught up about who we were then and who we were now and saying things we had been afraid to say but were practicing saying and grieving loss and regret and unspeakable things... that visit reminded me that I was more than my demons, that there was a future for me that wasn't a lie or dashed dreams, but a future that I had just lost sight of for a moment. A moment that had turned into years, but - it wasn't lost, that's the important thing. I can't really explain it... and of course I returned to old habits soon after my friend left... but fast forward to a move to a new city and the tangible change that created in both geography and necessities (like, suddenly I HAD to interact with people because I didn't know where anything was yet or how to get an answer from my kids' school or which day was trash day) - and all of the change helped me again to wake up to myself a little. I started to stop hiding, started going outside even when I didn't "need" to, allowing for small talk with strangers, signing up for shit just because nobody else was signing up for it. And it’s easy to miss the forest for the trees of my newly blossomed anxiety now, but I have come a really long way. I saw the hole I was repeatedly falling into and getting stuck inside and I finally chose to try another path, around the hole. It did NOT feel like that when I was choosing each new path; it felt like nausea and panic and imposter syndrome and fear of failure and deep, persistent shame. Shame of who I assume people perceive me to be, but even deeper shame of who I am afraid I actually am. But now I'm noticing that when I choose new ways to be in my world, when I choose new worlds, I feel less sick to my stomach, less ashamed of being seen. The panicky moments will be there for a while still, I acknowledge that. The voice inside telling me I’m not fooling anyone and I’ll always be a fucking mess will never not be audible, deep inside my head. But I know how to respond to that fucker now. At least I'm doing the damn thing. At least I'm showing up for life now. When I walk out my door I feel a little lighter knowing I’m actually trying, and that feels so much better than when I used to carry the heaviness of apathy in my aloneness every day.

This was a journal entry for sure and I just decided not to send it to you because I’m afraid I’m too much right now but I will honor myself and this moment of clarity and keep it for myself. I have come so far. I am proving to myself I am capable. I deserve to be proud of myself. I deserve and have reason to hope. 

2/7/20

Mid-youth bloggery

Behold, my first blog entry of my first blog.

I don't know if 30 would qualify as "mid-youth" by anyone's standards but because I am in perpetual and bottomless denial we're all gonna just go along with the title of this post. From the mouth of a precisely average-youthed babe.  (See, I'm already being amusing.  Aren't you glad to be reading this?)

Sometimes, I can muster up enough sense and/or self-consciousness to avoid spewing the contents of my mind across the internet whenever I feel so inclined.  I'll type something up, pause to proofread, hover over the post button... and then in an act of great wisdom and discretion delete delete delete delete.  This is not one of those times.  Discretion be damned.  Self-UNconsciousness be my guide.

I consider myself moderately intelligent, thoughtful, relevant.  Moderately.  I should keep up with current events better.  I know I am uncool.  But we all agree that uncool is cool by extended definition, so I'm good on that front, too.

Case in point.

Where I'm not so good is the place that nagging feeling lives, where at the end of my every day I leave behind the same empty impression on the world as the last day, like a redundant black hole that shouldn't be physically possible but is.  This is probably getting too introspective to be readable but - hear me out.  (Or not.  You're free to stop reading this at any point.)

I dislike cliches but one that I am bent on using anyway because of its unavoidable accuracy is this: my two children are the best thing I've ever done and will ever do.  I'll never top them.  And that's okay.  I'll probably only talk about them here in small doses.  This time, it is to acknowledge that my responsibility for and relationship to them day after day is nothing empty at all.  For better or for worse (and most often it's for worse because you need to understand: these two tiny kids I made with my husband are inexplicably amazing and true and good, and I am really good at screwing up amazing, true, good things) - better and worse they are my very full impression on the world.  That is a lot.  I am glad to be leaving that impression.  It is my undeserved privilege.

Madeline and Annabelle, future big impression makers.

Aside from my children, however, I leave no other significant impression.  (Another cliche of an unsalaried mom.  This first post is not my best.)

I have lots of ideas about what I want to be when I grow up.  (I promise the cliches will be less noxious in the future.)  I am just beginning to try and sort that all out but I feel the weight of my mediocrity and lose momentum very quickly.  As a result, my mind and body are wasting away to slovenly nothingness.  I must act soon or I fear I'll lose so much of myself that I no longer qualify as a sentient being.

This is the year I have lived three decades.  That is a long time to have avoided finding myself.  ("Finding myself?"  First step: admit the problem.  "My name is Emily and I am a cliche addict.  I am a walking, talking cliche.")

I just have to accept that as I age, more and more of my mental and emotional energy will need to be directed toward convincing myself that it is not too late for me to become who and what I will be.

Hence my delusion of still being comfortably in the center of my youth.  Hence my "mid-youth crisis" (thanks, Hozier) presenting in the form of me shamelessly starting a blog at age 30.

If anyone is still reading: this blog is for me, not for you.  It will probably make a lot of people feel offended, maybe even betrayed, and most definitely weird if/when we see each other in real life.  I am of the opinion that weird should be embraced, not avoided.  Probably because I am a total weirdo.

I feel I should also state that I'm not fishing for validation here.  Honestly, just putting these thoughts "out there" is therapeutic.  Cliches and all.  If you feel you relate to any of my thoughts, I do welcome that information.  I also welcome any feedback regarding my decision to finally start blogging.  I've been wanting to start for a long time now but my pride has always been too big.  Somehow gradually I've whittled away at my pride just enough to not mind that you unidentified readers will have now officially found out that I probably have nothing new whatsoever to contribute to the internet and am in fact just another mom desperately blogging her way to sanity.

So.  This blog is my therapy, a way for me to develop my (often stunted) emotional and philosophical responses to life, to express my spiritual wonderings about life, to document my fondness for controversial topics - and also to get some poems out of my loose-leaf notebooks.  (That one is my worst nightmare, actually.)

It's not going to be pretty.

But - welcome!