Itchy Fingers

Oh, how badly I want to break my promise to myself about not editing and deleting what I’ve (we’ve) posted. Oh how much I want to delete this account and disappear completely; taking its posts and comments with it. Oh how I wish I could just Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

But then a dose of reality hits me and I remember that I write these posts to track my “moods,” to give all my parts a voice and to give my awesome therapist a chance to see my journals now that I’m hundreds of miles away and can no longer submit my doodles and spaghetti dialogue noodled all over my 11×13 spiral bound sketch pads to her in session each week. I remember this project is just a collection of my raw thoughts and experiences; shameless, blameless and uncensored. And then, finally, humility returns and reality smacks me upside my mind…reminding me that (outside of a daily double-dose of odd search engine hits originating from China and an occasional visitor from Canada and Russia) no one is reading these words anyway. So why, in a room where I’m largely talking to myself and to psychotherapist, am I still so worried about what I’m saying? What others might THINK about me when, in truth, no one is really thinking about me at all?

I don’t say this with self-pity….I’ve intentionally designed a life in which I am alone, anonymous and thought of only as much as I invite from those I still have in my life. As of today, this includes my son, my daughter, my sister, my therapist and three friends who, God love ’em, have held on to me so far. I’ve spent two years living mostly off the grid, traveling around the U.S., being anonymous in different towns and different states, speaking to as few people as possible and having as little presence in the life as others as my introverted parts will allow me to have. I sometimes wonder, having so effectively separated myself from the rest of the world in order to integrate in a vacuum and without the pressure to perform or please others, if I’m going to end up being an integrated whole self completely and utterly isolated from the Whole Itself. Is it possible that I’ll just end up going mad after all but in a completely different way?

My fingers itch to delete, delete, delete. I want to disappear from here but then I remember…this is the only place I really exist in this world outside of my little rented Airbnb’s, my frantic runs “out there” to get the essentials and ice cream, and the occasional online video session for those who care about me (and the one who is paid to take care of me). So maybe I should get back to telling myself “Good fucking job! You stayed alive another day and wrote some more shit you might regret later. You did it. You’re here.” and just put these itchy fingers back to work making this ugly latch hook rug.