The Two R-Words I Didn’t Intend to Write About

I certainly didn’t want that last post front and center for so long, sure as shit not a full month.

Even worse, the comments. I’d delete them from the blog but what’s the use since I can’t delete them from my mind? (What the hell with the drama, delete them from my mind? Scrub them from the hard drive that is my gray matter! Oy. Read on if you must, but allow me to pre-apologize for the angst.)

I just wrote a quick e-mail to another blogger who’s ripping it up right now, and after two or three sentences about the inspired direction her blog is moving in, the e-mail ended up about me and about how I can’t manage to compartmentalize whatever it is I need to quarantine in my brain so I can write a post without meandering back on the same ever-present topic. And how horrified I was at the comments that last post received and how they have paralyzed me, since I’ve already written things I would have rather not reveal and that I’ve lost control over the protagonist of my blog, chiefly because I don’t have control over anything right now. I don’t know who to be on my blog, but I already fear I’ve said too much, that the persona I’ve put out there isn’t one readers will care about long-term.

I summoned some wisdom from who the fuck knows where because it’s in short supply lately and deleted all but the sentences about her and sent the e-mail off.

I never intended this to be a disaster blog. I’ve followed blogs written by parents dealing of terminally ill children and women dealing with divorce and marveled at their courage and grace, but I’m not among them. I know there is some blogger out there who could take the story of a struggling restaurant, tangled business and familial relationships, and dashed hopes and turn it into comedy gold or noble tragedy, or both. Penelope Trunk could probably blog the hell out of this story and then sell the memoir, the screenplay and even star in the goddamn movie of it, and I keep thinking I’m missing an opportunity here, that this situation has landed in my lap for a reason and, as a writer, I have completely missed the boat, that I’ll never be given such fertile material, and all I can come up with is terrified whining. Whining that’s not at all entertaining, either. (I could accept this trial in my life if I could at least make it amusing. Fuck, I’d agree to be set on fire if there was the chance someone would find my telling of it funny. I’m an insecure laugh whore that way.)

There’s a possibility my husband may be away from us for three months this summer, working in another state. How do I not write about that when I’m living it? And if indeed that there is no way not to write about it, how do I turn it into content that matters to someone other than me and my immediate family? I don’t know if it can be done.

I don’t know how authors of “disaster” blogs feel about the comments they receive, but I’m really curious. Do they find the sympathetic words and offers of prayer comforting? Are they able to accept the kindness of others – the kindness of strangers, in most cases – without feeling even worse about their present circumstances? Probably. Most people, even in extreme situations, don’t pathologize sincere messages of encouragement so that even the most heartfelt “Dude, that sucks” is heard in the blogger’s brain as, “Even YOU have underestimated just how bad things are. Not only are you in a hell of a tough situation, but you’re an idiot for not fully recognizing it.”

I know I’m ungracious, but I’m not ungrateful. I find it remarkable that someone I’ve never met, who lives far away, would take the time to write something in response to one of my posts. These are intelligent bloggers I respect and I value their words. I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m imposing on them emotionally. That I’m a charity case of the blogging world, always taking, needing to be soothed and propped up, too fragile to contribute.

(I’m proofreading as I’m writing and all I want to do is delete, delete, delete. But that means the previous post remains on top, which I don’t want. The only other option is to take down the whole blog and set my laptop on fire. But I’m afraid you’d find the account of the laptop being on fire funnier than when I was on fire and I don’t think I could take that, on top of everything else.)

And THEN. The religious comments.

My honest reaction when I saw them coming in? Fuuuckkk. That is not what I wanted. Partly because they involved my husband, his spiritual state of mind and the superhuman commitment he has to both his family and his business, and I just won’t write about these things. Also: What’s Deb on the Rocks going to say? (Why I thought of her and what she’d think first? No idea. Just telling the whole truth here.)

Just as I debate daily (no exaggeration, yo) in what form and how often I want the restaurant to make appearances on this blog, religion undergoes the same scrutiny. I could write paragraph after paragraph explaining where I come from on this issue and the shifts I’ve experienced and I know I need to man up and take whatever heat there is to take by saying this, but if I’m going to be effusive about my beliefs, I’ll be doing it on other blogs, over at religious bloggers’ places, and not here. I welcome every reader, and if someone chooses not to stick around, I want it to be for something other than my faith. Which I even hesitate to write – my faith – because I’m no faith-filled practitioner of religion. I practice it like I do most things: clumsily.

I’d really like to close comments on this post, because the kind words that last one got really were enough, more than I expected, and I’m not phishing for more. I do apologize for the self-absorption. Not quite sure what I can do to kick my ass out of this rut, but until it’s abundantly clear to me that I’m not capable of writing about anything else (and it has probably been quite clear to many of you for a while now, but hey, I’m a slow learner), I’m going to try to forge on. Unless you’d like to chastise me about caring more what Deb Rocks thinks than what God thinks or to tell me about how absolutely hifrickinlarious I am when engulfed in flames, then let’s just pretend this one never happened.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.