© 2011 lefron

Fixation, Fixed

Dear Blog,

You saved my life.

As I’ve learned from countless dinner discussions and false recollections, I have a terribly hard time talking about myself. It’s as though I black out and my whole life escapes my memory, and I can’t remember what I did every summer nor recall the names of my stuffed animals. I have a treasure chest full of stories from my childhood, tender moments growing up between friends, and then less happy times, all of which seem to blend into a mixed vat of paint to which I can no longer identify specific colors, but only a twisted spiral of the lot. If you were to ask me about a specific event in my life, I’d have no problem embellishing and decorating the story with lively vocabulary (which I misuse, but that’s my prerogative. Some words just sound better…onomatopoeia non-existent), exploiting all the truths and details to my listener. But for some reason, when it comes to vague reports of who I am, I close up, pull back, and panic.

Some people love talking about themselves, and that’s just fine, and sometimes I think it’s the reason I don’t; have you ever listened to someone who will not shut the fuck up about their cats and their homework assignments and their boyfriend blah blah blah…I can’t stand listening to those people. I do, because that’s just how I roll, but I don’t give a fuck. So I assume no one gives a fuck about my spillage, my year long vent into the air about my thoughts and woes and wonders. Then there’s those people who claim to listen to you but interject nonstop with attempts to save you and provide answers or speculation…so I just don’t even bother talking about myself, and find other topics to peruse (mainly of the erotic nature, and mainly laced with cursing).

Alas, I have trained myself to stay quiet. And in my perfect execution of said training, I found that when I needed it most, there was no one to listen to me. Which for me, is unfortunate, because I think a shit load and all that self-reflection was harmful to my health. Somehow, I decided to start blogging. I had no intentions of releasing personal thought, it was initially a way for my family to keep up with me after I dropped out of school (but most things I start don’t end the way I intended them to), and it naturally fell into its place…which is this wonderful place for me to explore my thoughts…How fantastic that I have a place to lay out what I’m thinking, look at face on, move around, understand how thoughts connect and form, restructure them, and formulate clear, positive, incentive versus my usual mumbling murmurs and lost tracks…I have a space to free my mind and it can’t respond, can’t judge me, doesn’t try to fix me…I can lay everything on the table and I can’t lose a thing.

This past year was a whirlwind of crap and wonder, and there were times when my thoughts were so foggy and sparatic that I couldn’t understand myself. I scared myself with the intensity of my thoughts and the loneliness it caused me; I felt like the only person in the world who could possibly muster up the things in my head. So I’d write. I’d write and write about the paradox in my mind and the patterns I engaged in that ruined friendships and my health. And when I was done, I’d realize the words I so angrily spit to the screen were coming from nowhere, and that I simply needed to organize my thoughts outside of my self. Thank Jesus I discovered therapeutic writing…sucks for you, but its fucking great on this end.

Blog you are my passive listener, my humble waking space, and I am forever grateful for your blank slates. Rock on Lefron.

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