I Dreamed I Lived
I come from a family that doesn’t always share. I mean, they share food and clothes and they pray together a lot and things like that. But things like feelings and whether we are angry or whether we are sad? Stuff like that?
That stuff, we don’t share as much. I would dare to even say, that when we do? We don’t do it that well.
This whole blogging thing has been hard for my family. It’s been hard that I have shared things that were not only mine to share. It’s been hard when sometimes they don’t understand why I feel the need to be so confessional. Why can’t you maintain some boundaries? they ask. It’s mainly Papa, who thinks I have diarrhea of the keyboard, with no filter on to keep the shit from flying out.
The thing is, I actually do. There is A LOT I don’t write and I don’t say here, knowing how it can impact others once I push down that first domino. In retrospect, there are some things I wish I had refrained from sharing. Of course there are also things I don’t share because if I do, you can see me for what I really am. An often insecure woman, with big dreams and sometimes little faith in herself. Someone who talks with a bravado she rarely feels, but hides behind humor or sarcasm and cheerleader type euphemisms like “Love wins!” or shit like “Don’t stop believin’!” Like I’m fucking the lead singer of Journey.
Not Steve Perry. The other one.
The truth is that there are some days where I really wonder if love wins. I wonder if dreams are just a distraction from accepting disappointment. I wonder why someone else would believe in me when I don’t have much faith in myself.
I don’t like myself much on those days. Truth is, I don’t like most people on those days. It’s hard to be loving, kind and supportive of others when you can’t even be those things to yourself.
A lot of bloggers will ask other bloggers, what’s your end goal? Some really want to blog, because they love the act of blogging itself. And let me be clear, blogging is different from writing. Blogging is not just the act of writing a post, it’s being interactive with your readers, finding other work that you love and want to support, working with other bloggers to build communities and encouraging and evangelizing others’ writing.
It’s a LOT of work.
Sometimes I am good at it. Most of the times I am thirty steps behind, trying to catch up to be a “good blogger.”
The Facebook page thing is the hardest. I feel like whenever I am most honest on it, I lose people. And that, I’m okay with. Once I stop being real and just spit stuff out to please others, nobody is going to be happy. It’s not sincere. It’s fabricated.
I would make a joke about Manti Te’O except it’s a bit overdone. Plus, we all had fake boyfriends and girlfriends. Right? Hello?! George Glass, everybody. Jan Brady started the trend a long time ago. I’m sure George Glass died an untimely death as well at some point.
Anyway, I like blogging. I think I will always be a “blogger.” But what I really want to be, like many other bloggers as well, is an author. Of books. I’ve got the blog thing down. Songwriting will always be a part of me.
But I want to publish and feel the pride of dreaming and crafting and writing stories that touch people. And that’s scary. It’s really freaking scary. There are some days when I look around and feel like the writing here is something that people love and there are other days where I know I have fallen short. That something was just missing.
And gosh. Who doesn’t want to write a fucking book? If I had a dollar for every blogger I knew who wants to eventually write a book, I could actually quit my job so that I could stay home and write a goddamn book.
I have found a few bloggers who don’t want to write a book or get away from blogging. They use this as a way to help promote a business or a brand. Make some extra money for the household.
And now I guess you know why I do it.
So I’m putting myself out there. This is it. This is me. Naked. Varicose veins, stretch marks, muffin top and all. Ok, ok. Don’t worry, Papa. I’m putting on a robe.
Better now? Ok, good.
I have decided not to give up on it. Even though sometimes disappointment seems like a shadow that I can’t get away from. I have decided to have some more faith in myself. Even on days when I stop believing I have “what it takes.” On days when I read David Sedaris and cry like a baby because my wit and attempts at humor will never compare to the masters I admire.
And well, I have decided to believe that love wins. Because I like who I love, even if it hurts. Even if I bleed. Even if it’s not reciprocated.
It’s still worth it.
So give yourself a hug.
Ok. Stop now. I don’t want everyone in your office to think you’re a freak.