I squirm a bit when I write about my insecurities. Not because I am afraid of exposing myself. I’ve proven, over and over again, that I’m willing to share some dark or personal shit. I squirm because I fear writing about my insecurities reeks of begging for validation.
When I say ‘afraid’ I mean ‘afraid tinged with shame’. The more I learn about myself and explore the reasons why I am who I am, I realize that shame has harmed me more than any other emotion. Guilt ranks a close second.
Shame still makes me want to hide in shadows. I am trying hard to beat that bitch into submission.
That being said, I considered my ‘place’ in the world of funny bloggers.
I have no doubt that I connect with people and that I get laughs. Hell, on occasion, I even make myself laugh. Not often though.
Mostly, I don’t find what I write to be particularly funny. What I write is a dump from my brain to your eyes. These are just my thoughts and they are mostly neither funny or unfunny. I have come to recognize, however, that other people find them funny.
But I digress.
I read what other people write and they can be so goddamn hilarious. Just the kernel of the idea in so many of these posts are brilliant. I read these posts and think to myself What are you fucking doing? You are not that funny. These people. Fucking hell, these people are hilarious.
So I decided, this morning, that I belong in the ‘unfunniest of the funny’ blogger category.
I sat outside on my deck in striped pajamas that look like a clown suit. They used to be flannel pajamas, but they are so old, that they’ve aged to a perfect soft, worn patina. Anyway, I sat there, drinking coffee and considered my place. That’s not a bad place, really. I mean, at least I’m willing to admit I’m funny. That’s a goddamn improvement.
I berated myself for feeling envious of other writers. Really? This is what you’re going to spend your energy on? Worrying about not being as funny as someone else? Perhaps you should show a touch more gratitude toward the life you have. Sure, it’s not fancy compared to many humans in the US, but world wide? You live like a queen.
I considered the envy a Congolese woman might feel toward the woman in the next home. She only had to watch two of her three children starve to death and die. I had to watch all my children die. Why should she still get to keep a child?
I felt bad, petty, and small-minded. I felt ashamed of myself for feeling sorry for myself for such a stupid reason when there are people truly suffering on this planet.
Then I stopped.
My emotions can only be born of my experience.
I can’t funnel my emotions through the planet’s collective experience. I carry enough of the world’s weight on my shoulders. I don’t fucking need all of it.
It occurred to me that when I feel ashamed of how I feel, that I shove those feelings back in their box and ignore them. I’ve never been good with a hammer and a nail, but I excel at internal carpentry. My internal masonry work is impressive as well. I’ve been building these walls and nooks and crannies for years.
I’m never going to deal with this shit if I keep boxing it up. Instead of telling myself why I shouldn’t feel envious, I should examine why I feel envious. Perhaps, acknowledging these feelings as a part of me could help me to on work changing them.
Or maybe, I’m full of shit. I’m still working that out as well.
I’ve also been featured on The Huffington Post, they posted my ‘menses magic’ article and on Mock Mom where I am talking about the battle between knitters and crocheters. Please leave a comment if you have a second. I hate it it when there are no comments on articles that I submit elsewhere.
Randy also put a ‘like’ button on my blog. You should click it. It dispenses candy.
I’m lying about the candy.