Is there a point to this anymore? What good has writing here done me?
I have confronted lies, drug abuse, heartbreak, betrayal, pain, anger and alcoholism and I have left it out there for the world to see. But I ask myself why? What is the point of leaving it up for the public to read? Why not just write this in my bedroom and leave it saved for eternity on my hard drive?
I’ll admit to myself that when I first started seeing people comment I got caught up in the narcissism of this little game. Running around flirting in comment boxes and coming up with witty one liners was a lot of fun. Who doesn’t like knowing people are reading and thinking about their life? I found myself seriously debating the deletion of this blog for that exact reason. The reason I came here is beyond me now and I’m not entirely sure of the reason I stay. It is so much easier to write when drinking, getting high and almost dying on a nightly basis, but I’m not doing that anymore. I felt like I had some sort of obligation to keep on writing stories about self destruction, but I don’t feel like writing about that anymore. To be honest I don’t know what I feel like writing anymore, I just know I need to keep doing it.
It becomes so much harder to write the god honest truth when you sacrifice your anonymity to let people into your world. You see everything you write through their eyes and you wonder if they might not love you when they finish the next sentence. I can’t go forward like that and I issue my last warning to this blog that it will be removed if this continues. This is my space and I do still need it, but I cannot allow it to be compromised or painted a certain shade for another’s eyes.
Yes, I can admit to myself that things are so much better right now, but I can’t keep burying my head in the sand waiting for the things I ignore to kick me in the ass. You will only ever see a little bit of an iceberg unless you jump into the water to see what lurks beneath the surface; writing is how I jump in. Sitting in my room writing by myself accomplishes only so much. I did a remarkable amount of writing during my little nap from this blog but I found that none of it scratched the surface the way I needed it too. Something about the fact that knowing only I would read it compelled me to write a version of events that I wanted to hear, one that would make me feel better. The truth is, however, it did nothing of the sort. I saw how quickly and easily I would lie to myself to make the events of my life palatable.
They are nothing more than lies and incorrect accounts of how I REALLY felt. In short they are pointless.
So I feel that in one week I have made a serious about face. I need to be able to read accurate accounts of my past so I can learn from them. “He who controls the past controls the future.” I debated making it private and inviting no one, I debated deleting it, I debated writing by myself and I debated just plain not writing at all. None of those are going to work; it has to be here or nowhere, this is how I control the past and how I control the future.
I made a promise to myself that I would be totally honest in every word that I put on this blog and that is what holds my hand to the fire. When I write alone or not at all, I find myself lying to make me better or worse or whatever the fuck I want to feel at the time. I write in this space knowing that if I lie here, I lie to the entire world. I lie to anyone who chooses to read it.
But more importantly if I lie here, I lie to myself. I end up back where I began and I gain nothing. I put up a quote as the second post I ever wrote, “When a man lies, he murders some part of the world.” I need this blog so I can be honest with myself; it is my only check and my only balance.
So that being said, I think what makes more sense to me now is, “When a man lies, he murders some part of himself.”
I am done with suicide, be it real or metaphorical, and that is the reason I stay.