Happiness silences me. When I’m content, I usually feel less desire to write. Certainly less desire to write about myself.
As a kid, I stopped writing a diary when adults repeatedly read it.
When I feel squelched, stuffed, stifled, when the community sits on me, that’s when I shut down. The threat of losing relationships or a job can shut me down. A serious threat to my well-being and safety if I say the wrong thing. Illness shuts me down. Busyness shuts me down.
I think that the healthier I get, the less need I will have to write about myself. The more connected I feel to other people, the less need I have to blog about myself. The more I get it out in therapy, the less I need to display.
It’s fine for me to say I’m in recovery. It’s disconcerting to think that I earn less money per hour today than I did at age 18 as the sole cleaner/gardener at the Boyne Island Shopper Center. And then I was working more than 50 hours a week.
