THIS CLOAK LIFE PRETENSE

I’m trying to get back into journaling. There’s been a lot of stuff I’ve been dealing with lately, and I think, “Hey, remember those times when I’d journal and get everything sorted out by simply writing? Yeah, those were good times.” But every time I pick up my journal and begin to scribble, I think, “This is stupid. It’s always the same thing, over and over and over again. No matter what I start out writing, I always end up at the same thing. And I’m tired of writing the same thing over and over again. It’s pointless.”
So I’d stop writing.
For a long while, I successfully convinced myself that writing was silly. It was just a phase. I had nothing to say, anyway, so why bother with words.
But I live in words. I’m the stereotypical introvert who needs time to process and generally isn’t sure what he thinks until he sees it written down in black and white. Or blue and white. Or whatever handy little color pen
So why do I resist using words? It’s just a journal. It’s not like it’s going to say, “Oh, Tarah, all that stuff you poured into me last night? Yeah, terrible. And don’t even get me started on the grammar. Seriously – what are you thinking, dreaming about writing books when you can’t even compose an interesting journal entry? And, oh, yeah, your life? It sucks. No, I take that back. Your life doesn’t suck, it’s just really, really boring. Which means you’re really, really boring. In case you hadn’t figured it out yet.”
I think my journal may be a bully.
Anyway, I journaled last night, despite my will.
I was really angry last night. Over something stupid, but it was still huge for me. Maybe once I’ve rationalized and processed everything that’s happened this spring, I’ll be able to laugh and say, “Whoa, I made a big deal out of nothing,” and tell everyone I meet what’s going on in my life, instead regretting that I was a wimp last week when someone near and dear asked me “how’s life?” and I smiled and said, “It’s going,” as I tell them something that seems like a huge deal to me, and probably to only me, but is still a huge deal anyway.
I like to think I’m stronger that that.
So I was angry last night, because, despite good intentions, I was weak. I succumbed to something that I knew I could have avoided, yet I was knowingly rebellious anyway.
Was it anything major? No. Did I hurt anyone else? No. Is it something that will psychologically scare me for life? No.
It was something naugty, something stupid, something that to outside eyes would seem trivial, but to me it was major. A battle of will.
And I lost.
So I was angry.
People don’t really think I get angry. A little righteous indignation, perhaps, peppered with the odd irritation and grumpiness. But not anger.
True; I generally don’t get angry at other people unless they are tripping on me. It’s generally just at me.
But I still am not immune to deep rage.
Which I had that last night. In an effort to release it, I thought, “Hey, maybe I should journal it, get it out of my system.” But then a part of me felt its tooooo shark, because it thought, “Oh, no, don’t do that – you musn’t admit that you get livid over something that stupid.”
Yeah. Now that’s stupid.
I’ve been trying to be more transparent in my life. I’ve lived so long under this heavy cloak of pretense that I can’t bear the burden anymore. Life is so much easier when am not saying what you expect me to say and yes, even tripp. I’m not always great at it, because deep down I still feel the call of being a people-pleaser and trying to live up to the perceptions and expectations everyone has of me, or the perceptions and expectations I think they have of me, which is just insane and I’m not ready to get into that.
So, in my angry rebellion, I journaled.
True; I was able to squeeze out at least one semi-poetic paragraph about how the thunder and lightning and rain beating down outside were reflective of my inner soul, but really, it was a bunch of tripe, and yeah, it ended with the same things I always seem to go back to in my journal entries. And it was only two pages. Barely.
But you know what? I decided that’s ok. At least I did something.
And you know what else? I’m not angry anymore. Journaling helped. A little. So did some moody brooding and listening to specifically selected music. And maybe some cool weather that allowed some solid sleep.
This morning, though, I’m ok with the fact I was so angry last night over something that could be so trivial. Because I didn’t deny it or try to hide it. I allowed myself to feel it fully, admit it fully (if pitifully), and then I moved on.
I say all this because I can feel the pull, that seductive tug to once again wrap myself up in the cloak of pretense. To hide everything that’s not cool in my life and only show the happy-happy-joy-joy side. And yeah, I do have the happy-happy-joy-joy stuff – I can wax lyrical about life and music and rainbows and rain (it is raining at the moment, in case you’re wondering, and yes, it is awesome). But that doesn’t mean I’m allowed to hide behind it just to make me sound like my life is great.
It is great.
But I’m not.
I’m human. Weak and fragile and broken and confused and I don’t have all the answers, and the ones I do have, may not always be the right ones.
But that’s ok.
Because instead of this cloak of pretense, I’ll take a cover of grace.
And maybe I’ll admit that I miss writing.
Because I do.
Even if I think I’m no good at it and hate vulnerable confessions, even when I know it’s what I need to do.