I registered a few other blogs and I started writing on them but I just didn't feel comfortable. I just didn't feel myself. Sort of like how people feel when they are in a major transition in their lives and they don't know which way is up.
Yes, I was writing on them. Yes, I was trying to make some sense out of things on them. But the blogs just didn't feel like
home. I don't know where
home is supposed to be right now since I lost my Mom to cancer one year ago, my Dad has been ill from a stroke he had in 2005 and sometimes he thinks I'm his wife and my brother is a dick who has stolen all of my father's money, living happily ever after with his lover...
I grew up in the same house in Texas and that house is gone thanks to my brother's financial schemes. So, screw the
literal meaning of home. I don't even have a
physical home to go to anymore.
BunionFever was and is my first ever blog. It is the only landing ground that has sort of remained there in the background, staring and glaring at me, quietly, non-judgmentally over the past two years.
BunionFever is like my home.
I have many fond late night memories on this site, a tiny timeline of my life gone downhill and uphill and downhill again.
I've gone from being an overworked serial dater Manhattanhite to an exhausted caretaker of my Mom and Dad where I literally dropped off the face of the earth and didn't even recognize myself in the mirror, and now to a jobless creative too much wine drinker type San Franciscanite woe is me type of almost 30 something.
This is definitely the most alone I've ever felt.
When that pang of loneliness hits me (usually at 2 in the morning, when it's really quiet and I can hear the high pitched wind chimes out my window) I realize that there really is no one out there who can make me feel better.
This thought is probably the most incredibly frightening thought I've ever had, like a dark endless abyss that I can't see through.
But, this thought of being utterly alone is also the most incredibly liberating. It really is inevitable that my sense of peace and happiness cannot come from anything outside of myself.
It must come from me.
But which one is the real me? Just
who is the real me? Who do I want to be? I'm tired of taking everyone's advice like that Maria Shriver chick and all her happy-go-lucky books about "striving towards your dream."
It's all bullshit and we know it. We just know it. We know we are wasting away our lives not living authentically enough. We know we could be living more authentically.
We are born, we barely get there, then we die.
I have been trying on many different hats and I still haven't found one that fits quite right. Or if it does fit, it's just not the right color.
I've been the slut, the prude, the life of the party and the wallflower. I've been the stylish fashionista and the sloppy athlete, the disillusioned poet and confident story teller.
I've been the honest one and now sometimes the dishonest one.
I really haven't wanted people to know just how much pain I'm in. It feels embarrassing and self-loathing, and it's much easier to hide behind my laughter or sarcasm.
What I have realized is that I need this blog. I need this blog to give me some semblance of home, some feeling of comfort.
A weird thing happened to me as I was writing this. A good friend of mine (who lives in the same town where my home was) called me out of the blue and asked me to come for a visit... I guess we really are never alone, and there will always be a place to go to to escape and feel safe...like home.
I really do think this blog is that for me.
