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My Profile
Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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5:19 p.m. - 2005-07-01
'I've got a peaceful easy feeling…'- The Eagles Can you believe I've been quiet because nothing is chapping my ass? Yeah, me neither, but it's true! I don't know if I've ever been this calm. No, I don't have a Valium drip nor does my stove have a small leak, smarties. It's just…just…life has become manageable. Do I think I'll never get wound up again? No. Will I in the near future spend some time contemplating the span of the Hamilton Fish Bridge? Yeah, probably. Will the upcoming Supreme Court battle wick me out until my kidneys shrivel and my eyeballs pulse? You betcha. Doesn't matter. I can deal. It's like some horribly tense guy wire inside me finally snapped. But instead of going to pieces, all I feel is relieved. This being able to deal thing kind of crept up on me. The realization of it, I mean. I think Wolf's party brought it to my attention. I wasn't kidding when I said I had major freak-outs before entertaining. Before a party every molecule in my bod went on red alert. I churned and fretted. I threw up a couple times. I'd go out to the car and scream myself hoarse. Not for Wolf's party. Heck, I didn't even make a list before Wolf's party. That's how un-stressed I was. Wanna know why I can deal? I can deal because I have spent the last 4 years talking about myself. I've talked and talked and talked and talked. Every day. Over these last 4 years I've said everything I've always needed to say. Ached to say. I wept and ranted and mourned. The gag order was lifted after a lifetime of being stifled. Stifled by my mother. Stifled by society. Even stifled by my own stubborn refusal to admit I had a shitload of things to say. I found D-land, opened my yap and let the words come out. I went through therapy right here in front of all y'all. I would never be so arrogant as to say my version of therapy would work for everyone. Some folks might need a safer place to let it all out than an open diary on the fricken Internet. Others might find the direction provided by a trained therapist helpful. I'll be the first to admit that a rambling monolog doled out 1,200 words at a time once a day for 4 years isn't the most expedient way to deal with a headful of mess. But it worked for me. It's a good thing I didn't know what was going to happen when I put up that first entry, I'd have run away screaming. Nope, I signed up here so I could hone my craft. So maybe I'd learn to be a real writer. That's another thing I've noticed. My desire to be a 'real' writer has waned. Sure, it would be wonderful if someone wanted me to write for them. If I could be an Ellen Goodman or an Anna Quindlen. Shoot, even a Dave Barry would be pretty sweet. But the burning desire to be a real writer came from the need to have my say. It was that simple. I was choking on unsaid things. To me this meant I should be a writer. I didn't need to be a real writer, I just needed an ear. I will always be a Storyteller. I will always frame my world with words. But do I HAVE to be a real writer? Nope. Not anymore. You see, the only story I HAD to tell was my own. And now I've told it. Be easy, my friends. I'm not closing up shop. I'm still coming here to kvetch and sound the alarm on the Bushies and brag on my kids. However, I think the focus of my writing will shift a little. I've kind of caught up with myself. Less waking up the sleeping dogs and more current events. I've unburdened myself to the point of no longer being stoop shouldered under the load. The wretched choking loneliness of having to carry it along all by myself without complaining has dissipated. Feels good. I feel good. ~LA
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