I oft want to post something, because bleeding the wound, no matter how shallow, always seems to make it heal faster.
Like, do I talk about the fact that every week in the 3:30 time slot, I receive at least one comment that makes me want to toss up a finger or two and hang up. And that today, even after that moment arrived, I can finally say I felt nothing and it didn’t even bother me. Like, oh that’s all you have? It’s like you didn’t even try!
But then I think about the years-at-a-time I’ve shut down this blog. I wouldn’t say my mental health was much improved. But not having to worry about what I wrote to self-soothe was, well, soothing.
Like when the Toon of Goon sent some unhinged email that a post I made (long before the era this email arrived in) was somehow related to that era. And I was like, nope, bitch, try again. That felt GOOD. I didn’t write a public post about the era in question. Shit, I didn’t even write that many PRIVATE ones that could have gone live/viral.
Anyway. I was just reading an essay about how care and support are luxuries that you are only entitled to TEMPORARILY … and that’s only if you’ve earned them under capitalism. That you’re unworthy of care if you are in some way unwell. (And/or, I infer, under-capitalized.)
And before that, I was reading an essay about how writing for oneself is the ultimate act of self-soothing. Like when people thank us for writing a piece, no thanks are needed. Writing it likely kept us from committing some form of self-harm (e.g., smoking, overeating, indulging in some sort of ridiculous behavior we enjoy as a coping mechanism from some trauma).
I think about that a lot. I deprive myself of writing. Let’s face it, I really only have a handful of losers who sit around rooting for my demise and a separate-but-equal number who actively trample on me because they are pure evil. There are plenty MORE people who want to see me shine. If only I’d let myself.
Anyway, the point of the first essay is that, though these are all private things that make us unwell or downright break us, they are actually communal. They were not caused in a vacuum and they should not be shouldered that way. I’m not talking about those who create their drama and exaggerate their mental/health problems to make them everyone else’s problem. I’m talking about all of us carrying around public and private wounds who didn’t self-inflict them. And even if we did, it was something in the collective that caused it and therefore it’s really all of our problems until it is assuaged somewhat.
Like, I miss my Cocoa so much, I can’t stand myself. Yes, it is my grief. It is my pain for … what? Having loved a furry little girl so much that my heart burst with joy when she was mine? How about look around at all the assholes who mistreat animals and, I’ll say it, me. How about everyone who let me the fuck down so much that my best friend on earth was a tiny 6-pound cat who brought me nothing but love and acceptance and loyalty I’ve never enjoyed before because every human I’ve encountered is fully incapable of it? I don’t expect anyone to fix it. Let me just be sad without making it worse. As it’s been said, so many people have nothing yet can’t even enjoy the nothing they have in peace. If you can’t help, just don’t plunge the knife in any further. And if you can’t in fact help, why the fuck not?