Think Out Loud

Would it be too much to ask myself to consider a discourse on self-discovery quietly, in my own mind, as an internal dialog like most sane adults? Apparently so.

I’ve been speaking aloud, on the radio and on stage, the detailed minutia of [not only] my everyday life, but the abyss of my broken soul for a very long time. My adult life has consisted of having my fickle emotions either validated or challenged in an open forum. I have been an “opinion gladiator” for over almost 2 decades, and the fact that I am completely lost when I don’t have a coliseum is fucking with me. Who is a warrior when they are not at war? And, more importantly – who am I when no one is looking? What do I think when no one is listening?

Here is something I know about myself to be a.) true b.) disturbing and c.) a total fucking nuisance to anyone who dares be in a relationship with me. I have NO clue what I am actually feeling unless I have written it down first. Straight up. How weird is that? Here’s the best I can explain it: everyday, all day, I am having this conversation in my mind. It is very “ADHD”; blurting, and unfiltered with the most horrific content. I will seriously go from an internal feminist rant on self-worth being defined by impossible media standards, to “but I wish my ass was 3 sizes bigger and shook like the bunt cake jello mold you always see on buffet tables that no one dare be the first to cut into. Look at it but don’t touch it.”

At an early age this sort of mindless blurt was [appropriately] shut down by my step father. “You speak when you are spoken to.” It was enforced by military training (brainwash) “Permission to speak drill sergeant?”. And then traumatized into submission by a series of unfortunate “domestic disturbances”.

These days when my beau effectively communicates his emotions, ad nausem, I stare at him blankly like a deer in the head lights, documenting his every sentiment only to later chew on the cud of our conversation and decide what it is I am feeling and want to say about it, oh … about three days too late.

Here’s what I imagine it’s like to have an argument or heated discussion with me; I think it’s like days of old when you sent your beloved a message on the pony express and you had to wait for her response as the letter carrier battled the terrain and harsh weather. I think it’s like dial up internet, and you punch in your www dot emotional address and wait in anticipation while fax machine noises emit from my blank stare. I think it’s like yelling the content of your soul into the grand canyon and waiting for your echo to actually answer the questions of the universe. What I’m saying is – it’s slow mang.

So what now?
My son is off at college, I am away from radio and poetry, and I haven’t dared to write for nearly HALF a year. What effect does this have on me? Complete and total emotional regression. My sister called it out at me “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re acting like a teenager, I don’t get it.”

I had to sit with that, and all my impulsive and reckless decisions, asking myself “what’s your problem?”

Aside from my obvious mid-life crisis, battle with empty nest, identity arm wrestling match … 

“what the fuck is wrong with me” is:  I’m NOT writing, therefor not thinking / feeling. 

“Auto Pilot” is having an adverse effect on me.

Shut up and Write.
I’m going to pick up my pen, and go back to what I know keeps me sane.
I’m going to do it in a coliseum of my choosing, and in this journey of self discovery I am going to dare myself to honest.

I am going to think out loud.

So this disclaimer is to say – I’m going to privatize my blog. If you want to read it, you have to subscribe, because I intend to offend and if you disagree or get angry with it, I refuse to be held accountable.

Here’s to figuring out what you see in the mirror when you are stripped of all your titles. Cheers.