Write Pam Write!

The past couple of weeks have been downright grueling.  My stars and planets have been out of whack.  Karma has come around to smack me in the face.  I suppose it’s natural for bad spells to happen from time to time.  Luck often runs in cycles.  Let’s just say that I haven’t been enjoying many aspects of my life lately.  While I haven’t lost sight of the good things in my life, it felt very much like the universe was actively working against me.  Day after day was filled with nothing but stress, defending myself, advocating, explaining, reassuring, tap-dancing, oh…and a little crying thrown in, too.  Backstabbing at work in the highest form.  Bullshit and crap from people in my life who should NOT matter at all, people who are as insignificant as a pimple on my ass.  Thankfully, it appears that the problems at work have stabilized, until the next round, that is.  The stress was exhausting.

Meanwhile, life continues to go on unabated all around me.  The house gets messy.  Everyone expects food on the table and clean clothes.  (Yes, T does do his fair share!  He has been crazy-busy at work, too!)  They expect MOM to come through the door at the end of the day and be MOM no matter what goes on during those hours when I am away from home.  The pressure at the end of the day sucks sometimes.  Sometimes I just want to come home, take a hot bath, slip in between some cool sheets, and drift away into dreamland, but I can’t.  Thank God…I can’t do that.  The “work me” is not the REAL me.  The REAL me is who I am when I come home each day.  Sometimes with all the stress and pressure of work, I forget the importance of being the REAL ME.  I am needed here at home.  I am needed  to listen, to love, to laugh, and to share a life with these wonderful people who are my family.

During these past weeks from hell, there were things that I have wanted to write about.  Once or twice, I actually sat down and began to write, but something stopped me.  It was a comment made during a recent conversation with a so-called friend.  This person is aware of my blog, has actually read it from time to time, and made a comment to me that has made me feel ridiculous for ever writing…EVER…or continuing to write.  This person said, “I don’t understand why anyone feels the need to write about details in their life and then put it out there for the world to see.”  Even writing those words hurts.  You know that  cold feeling of shame?  I felt stupid and belittled by those words.  Of course, like most passive-aggressive comments, that scathingly critical observation about bloggers was followed by, “But it’s great that you enjoy writing.”

This past Sunday, I attempted to write, but those words once again filtered back into my head.   Why DID I need to write about my life, my emotions, my feelings?  AND…why DID I feel the need to “put it all out there” for the world to read?  Those thoughts stopped me from writing.  In fact, I logged into my blog account and changed my settings to private.  I was ashamed for all that I have written.  I felt ashamed of my emotions and for candidly “putting it all out there” for the world to see.  I’ve been thinking a lot about my blog (even though I haven’t been writing) over the past few weeks.  Am I nuts to blog?  Am I an attention-grabber?  Is there something wrong with me?  Why in the hell DO I blog?  I felt ashamed, unstable, and strangely guilty.

Tonight after dinner, I sat on the patio with the girls. We were listening to some Artie Shaw on my iPad.  As clarinetists, Emily and I both love Artie Shaw, but Lola kept asking, “where are the words?”  It made me smile as I remembered a younger Lola constantly asking me to interpret song lyrics for her.  She wanted to know “why he done her wrong.”  She wanted to know why Dinah Washington felt like crying or why Billie Holiday’s man “wouldn’t give her no breakfast.”  Words.  The words told a story, and she wanted the story.  Artie Shaw and his clarinet made Lola feel ripped off!  I thought about that as I listened to the “wordless music” as Lola called it.  Lola wanted the words.

Stories have been told forever.  Before the written word, human beings told each other their stories.  They shared the stories of others they met along the way.  Experiences were shared and shared again.  Stories, WORDS, are how we learn, and explore, and grow, and amuse ourselves.

As I thought about this blog, and the other blog which will remain private, I remembered some of the things that I have written these past two difficult years.  I’ve written about joy, betrayal, loss, passion, grief, death, birth, love, anger, and so much more.  I have never claimed to have talent as a writer.  What you see on this blog is not a writer, but it is a woman who has been struggling, surviving, and hopefully growing as a human being.  Writing has often helped me find my way, sort out, and clarify my thoughts.  Writing has brought me a better understanding, a sense of peace, closure, and has frequently served to remind me of my blessings.

Don’t like the blog?  Don’t read it.   Think blogging is stupid?   Go find something more useful to do with your time.  I’m sure there must be something to watch on TV.

***And to any of my dear friends who may be thinking, “Oh, God! I hope it wasn’t me who said that about blogging!”  Don’t worry.  It wasn’t you!  🙂