I have a house that is sorely in need of cleaning. I was reading about preparation for Passover last night. I would not make a good observant Jew. I don’t think I could clean my house that thoroughly. In the area of cleaning, I am not Norwegian.
I also have weeks of school work to catch up on in order to get through this semester. I believe this will be the semester where the GPA takes a nosedive. I just can’t focus. I didn’t sleep well last night at all. I woke up more tired than when I went to bed. Even when I sleep well, I still don’t feel rested. I feel I could sleep for days. I wish I could sleep for days. I also wish I could quit school.
Nevertheless, here I sit writing blogs. Recently I’ve thought I would have been better not to even start this blogging business. It hasn’t been since my Junior High School blue diary that locked, that I have written this much. Then I tried to keep my thoughts secret. That was why it had a lock. Then I lost the key so I had to cut the strap holding it together.
My mother routinely went through all my drawers and things. I tried to hide the diary. I became a master at hiding things behind public hallway radiators, etc. I wrote a note to my mother in the diary. I asked her please don’t read my thoughts. Sometimes I’d lie in my diary. I’d say the things I wanted to do but hadn’t, were actually true. Sometimes because I knew my mother would read my diary, I’d say sensational things just to see what she’d do.
Here I am blogging. I have regular readers who for whatever reasons enjoy reading my thoughts. I check to see where people are reading from and how many. I know there is someone from Estherville, Iowa that reads nearly every day. Someone from NYC regularly reads. I wonder if they are from Brooklyn. The other day someone from Mumbai read it. No one in Africa or South American has read. I wonder who these faceless people are that read about my life.
I wonder why I write. I feel this compulsion to express myself. I’ve been asked if this is cathartic. It is. Maybe I am being too candid at times. Maybe I shouldn’t share my feelings. But I am, and I will. I need to do this. This is my story. This is how I feel. This is how the world looks to me.
I’ve learned that I’m not that different from everyone else. I used to think I was a misfit. That is probably true. I pastored a church of misfits once. We all lived on the Island of Misfit Toys and worshiped together. There are other misfits in this world, other people who struggle with the same things with which I struggle. There are people experiencing life and death just like me. There are people insecure at times, yet strong at other times. Just like me.
I’ve been told there are books inside of me waiting to come out. As I pour my soul out on the keyboard, I wonder if I am putting into words what you are feeling as well.