Yesterday I walked past my husband’s computer as he was checking his email. I noticed that his inbox was filled up with my blog posts, and wondered if I was possibly writing too often. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t ask – that is usually how I am – but it did concern me.
These things make me anxious. How do I know if I am doing something too much or too little? How do I know when to stop, or when to keep going? The rules in this society are so difficult to figure out, and it seems that everyone makes up their own – but others don’t appear to be having these struggles that I am having.
Always I am analyzing the things I am doing, and comparing them to what others are doing – but I still can’t seem to fit in. I watch, and try to do what they do, and am told (or not told, but hear others mentioning it of me) that I am doing it wrong. How can I tell?
You’d think that after more than 30 years of observing and analyzing the culture, I would be able to figure it out, but still I feel like I am on the outside looking in. Every once in a while people will tell me that I did well in some situation, and to keep it up. Most of the time, however, I am shaking and anxious and awkwardly standing around not knowing how to participate. When I try, I mostly get it wrong, and then I spend years reliving the memory in shame. I cannot let it go.
When I share, I often share too much. When I try to say what I think others expect of me, they respond to me in shock or anger so often. When I try to follow their rules, I get accused of being rigid and inflexible. When I try to not think of the rules as absolutes (as they seem to be able to do) I get in trouble (and lose my children) for not following the rules. I don’t know how they expect us to fit into society when they are so confusing.
With my blog posts, though, I think I will have to keep writing. It has to be all or nothing for me. To keep it part of my routine, I have to write every day. If I try to become more relaxed about things, it is more likely they will be put to the side and forgotten. I don’t want to forget this.
Besides, I like writing. It is one of my absolute favourite things to do, but it is also a compulsion of mine. I have to write, just like I have to draw floor plans, just like I have to spend time on Pinterest and the Realtor website, and dream of moving (even if I never will.) These things calm me. Not being able to do these things creates such strong anxiety that I can’t function pretty much at all with other people.
Perhaps I am sharing too much – I know I constantly worry about that. Perhaps I am writing too much – though I guess people could choose not to read. I know that I am not a great writer. I struggle especially with the grammar in writing. I write like I think, and my thoughts don’t always follow the rules of grammar.
I suppose I could never write some bestselling novel – though I have written a fictional novel, and I am pleased with it (but I wonder if I would still be happy with how it turned out if I shared it with others.)
But maybe I can do this. Maybe it is too much – but my hope is that it will help someone, somewhere. What is life for if we can’t use it to help others? But this is all I have… all I am able to do – and I hope it is enough.