I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself.
Why? Because I've been catching up on some of your blogs the last couple of days. I smiled, laughed, and had tears brought to my eyes. I had a wonderful time, and I'm not yet finished. Yet, the pity party started.
I don't like myself this way. But the thing is, I really do enjoy writing. I wish I were clever with words on a regular basis, that I had that elusive certain "something" to draw people in. I so admire you. I really, truly do. But I also *gasp* envy you. I'm amazed and flattered that you even come to visit my little blog.
I do my best to be a good mother. This is what I want to do, and I'm learning now to love it in ways that I hadn't been before. I overall enjoy being home with my children, which makes me happy to say because six months ago I didn't enjoy it much. It was nothing they did, just where I was--and it wasn't a very good place. Now, I have no desire to be anywhere else, most times.
The only thing I would like to do is to reach people through writing. I love it. It both nourishes and heals me. As I pour out words, it fills me up at the same time. I would love to have the talent to share those words with others in a way that makes them want--no, compels them to read more.
I am filled with inadequacies. There are things that I do well, and I know that I do. James is always telling me that I don't give myself enough credit. I think that's because I always know I can do better, should do better.
But this writing thing, I don't know why it means a lot to me to have other people enjoy what I say, but I do. Yet when I write something about myself that isn't a funny story, I always fear that I turn people off. There. That was scary to say.
I can't seem to find my blogging niche. I'm not continually any certain way. I'm not routinely funny, or deep, or charming, or controversial in my writing. Not that I'd want to be controversial. I hate conflict.
I worry that people will think I'm fishing for people to feel sorry for me if my thoughts are sad. I'm concerned they'll think I'm bragging if I talk about the wonderful things I love. I fear putting myself out there. The only people I share much of my deep, inner self with are my mom, sister Karen, and James. It feels good to put my feelings down on digital paper, but it's also scary. I don't like feeling exposed. I don't like that I might be judged negatively. I admire my friends who can post their deepest fears and insecurities for everyone to see. There's always part of me that's locked back tight. It's like I can't help but keep back part of myself. I don't know why that is, or how to fix that, or if I even need to. After all, that is part of who I am.
It's a protective mechanism, I suppose. I think it's the part of me that I even hide from myself.
I have always felt things too much. Was attached to things like the trees in the yard when I was a kid. Felt sorry for an ant's family when he got killed. I think I developed a protective box inside me because it hurt when I felt anything too much. Even overwhelmingly good feelings like large amounts of love and joy causes me to feel physically uncomfortable in my chest. I think I keep close watch over the emotional spigot so as not to drown in the flood.
Maybe it doesn't matter and I should say things anyway. But then, would I be giving up too much of myself? I don't know.
I'll probably go to sleep and wake up regretting this post. But now, I'm tired and things like this always seem like a better idea when you're exhausted. That, or I guess I'm too sleepy to care.
By the way, tomorrow we find out what gender the baby is if it's cooperative. Or I guess I should say, today.