Thursday, May 8, 2014

The Point of a Blog

While my blog was dangling for weeks between posts, I was asked "What is the benefit to having a blog anyway? You don't make money from it, do you? Or are there ads or something?" This came from a family member who's not terribly familiar with tech, and is of my Dad's generation. I replied defensively that I'd made $300+ one year from advertisers, and that that's on my tiny end of the scale of blogging income. I told him about bloggers who have stable careers and that it's absolutely valid as a journalism media besides my world of personal and creative bloggers.

Then I felt like the neglectful mother of my baby blog and resolved (again. Again again...) to dedicate more intention and time to developing it, and simply to the business of writing here more than once or twice a month.

I've let the wraith girl lie to me for months. Have you heard of Dancing with the Black Dog? This writer sees his depression as a black dog. Others see a dark cloud. Or someone created the wind-up toy people for the anti-depressant commercial. My depression is the wraith girl. I named her that at age 19, when my anxiety/depression was developing into the full-blown crazy it became in my early twenties. When it's a bad time mentally, I feel half alive and very much ghost like. Because I was a nineteen year old goth girl, it was the more elegant Wraith Girl, rather than Corpse Mom or Zombitch or whatever more punchy thing I'd call it now. The name has stayed with me long past my legitimate 'girl' days. I like retaining the childish terminology, though. It is an immature and un-complex piece of me.

The wraith girl's lie is that my world is too pitifully uninteresting to write about. That because I'm always stuck in bed I have no stories to tell. She's full of total bullshit, but weren't we all at nineteen? I've been able to get out of the house more since I got the spinal stimulator. The fact that I have this odd body in the first place means I have a very unique story to tell. Rationally I'm just now coming out of the fog enough to see how untrue it is that I don't have a (thousand) story (-ies).

Mostly, it's been a chemical crash. I feel like the stress when my Dad was sick last year set me off into the depression and then winter kicked me while I was down. In February, I tried switching meds only to lose my shit in an ugly, messy way. Getting leveled out was fast once I switched back but climbing all the way out has been tough. I'm still not where I need to be, so I started therapy again this week.

I'm doing alright enough that no one should worry. I'm getting it figured out. Again. It's always that: cycles of learning and relearning lessons, cycles of light and dark.

Coil inward, spiral out. Fall down and then spring.
Thank you, my Sousters who are confidants. Thank you, my family who are a firm net of support. Thank you, my bl'eaders who are here when I do write and who ask about me when I do not.
Thank you like Alanis thanked India, to my rolling little hilly world and my fluffy adorable and adoring puppy.

Teal hair and new tattoos, y'all. Life is color.