to blog or not to blog

There are times when things happen, and I just don’t know if it’s appropriate to write about them here or not. My general rule of thumb, when this happens, is to Not. It’s the better-safe-than-sorry approach to blogging. No need to put iffy content up on the interweb, I always say.

There are times, though, when things happen, and I really WANT to explore them, to write about them. And yes, I could just open up a word document and write my little heart out, try to purge myself that way — but see, there’s a reason I’ve never been able to keep a diary for any length of time. I always feel self conscious, even dishonest, because I keep finding myself hoping that maybe someday, someone will stumble across this diary, this document, and… react to it, be it positively or negatively. How they react never feels as important as the idea that there will be some exchange, some interaction, between my words and another human being — and so, sooner or later, I always give up. Because what the hell kind of self-deceiving, roundabout, ass-backwards way of writing is that?

It’s maybe not the most appealing facet of my personality, but the fact remains that usually, when I want to write about things going on in my life, it’s because I want to communicate. I have neither the depth nor the self sufficiency that (I think) the keeping of a truly sincere private diary would necessitate. A blog is the perfect medium for me, because people can choose to read it or not; they can check in (or not), they can click away when they’re fed up, safe in their anonymity (except for YOU, single mysterious reader in SWEDEN who, according to my webstats, checks in EVERY DAY — who ARE you?). It’s a pressure free environment, a void into which I can toss these pieces of my life, my thoughts, without pretending like I’m writing solely for myself. Then, feeling a tad lighter, I can carry on with my day.

The only problem with all this, this blurring of the lines between blogging and journaling, is that sometimes, like I said, things happen and I want to write about them. But because I don’t live in a vaccum and these things involve other people, I don’t know whether it’s okay to discuss said things on the internet.

Oh what the fuck ever. Screw this. I’m gonna talk about it.

I have this person in my life, and she is very very very important to me. She is also mentally unwell. She’s bipolar and not on medication, has never been on medication, and sometimes, when she calls me up, she’s just so unhappy, and so angry, and so hurt, and so hurtful, that it just leaves me at a loss. I pick up the phone and she just starts yelling right away, screaming, about anything and everything, telling me that all those times we were doing well, all those times she seemed happy and okay, that was all fake — she was just pretending — she always feels like this, always always always, she always wants to give up , she never wants to live this stupid, worthless life in this ugly, useless world. And nothing I say makes her feel any better and finally, inevitably, she manages to drag me under with her, and then somehow, suddenly, I’m yelling right back, matching her curse for curse, screaming What, just WHAT, exactly, do you want me to say? To do? To BE for you?

After we do that for a while she usually calms down. Apparently she finds some sort of catharsis in breaking me down — which makes sense, I guess, because at least for that moment, she probably feels less alone. If we’re both screaming and crying and swearing, then we’re in it together, we’re doing it all together — it’s not just her. She’s not the only crazy one. I get that. But it doesn’t make it any easier to do, to know that she’s pulling my strings, pushing all my buttons, and then to sit back and let her do it. Because there’s nothing else I can do. Because at least once it’s over, once we’ve hit rock bottom, we’ll be able to go back to the beginning of the cycle, to banter and laugh again — and she’ll tell me, no, she didn’t mean any of it; yes, it is hard sometimes, but she doesn’t really hate this world, this life. Me.

I don’t know what to do. I’m not asking for advice — I just wanted to spell it all out for once. There are times when I just think to myself What the FUCK. What the FUCK am I DOING. WHY do I put UP with this. I don’t NEED this shit. And then the rational, calm Me resurfaces, stepping forward from whatever psychological wall she was huddled behind during the actual onslaught, and points out, Well, Duh. NObody NEEDS this particular strain of shit. That’s not what it’s about. It’s about whether or not you love the person enough to put up with it, to deal, to hunker down and let them be what they need to be, let out what they need to let out, to stay, to figure out how to hang on to yourself through the crazy so you can keep on staying. And face it, you do. I do.

Yeah. When all is said and done, there really isn’t anything for me to do about it. It will just go on, and on, and on, and there will be good patches and then there will be really bad ones. It’s just hard, you know, to know that someone you love so much is in so much pain so much of the time, to witness someone who can be so brilliant and full of life, of joy — more than anyone else you’ve ever known — take themselves apart like that, until there’s nothing left, over and over again. I honestly believe it’s chemical, some sort of imbalance she was born with, and I think if she would just go and get some help, some medication, her life could be so much more bearable. But she’s like fire (cliches aside, she really is like fire, and sometimes that can be a beautiful thing, but other times… not so much), and I know that convincing her to do that, to get help, is going to take a long, long time, and involve a lot of really bad burns, for both of us.

So here’s to bandages and aloe and that slippery pink lotion (calamine?) and nicotine and good music and double cape cods and british television and blogging and other soothing things. I’m gonna need ‘em.

[Image Source: Portfolio of Photojournalist Benjamin Krain]