Tonight I feel pretty lousy. I am second-guessing my dive into blogging. I read what I write and it feels...strange. I've written some things that people thought were funny and I think I've tried to keep emulating that. I see blogs like Camp Patton and others getting a lot of attention and support for being real, in a humorous way, and it pushes me to try and be a way that maybe I'm not really. What seems to come across is an inauthentic version of myself. When I write essays or short stories, my voice comes through clearly (or so I've been told). In blogging it seems more complicated because there's that want of instant gratification. You know what I'm talking about: comments. Or even emails. It's discouraging to know people (somewhere, out there) are reading what I'm writing and not giving me any feedback. I love feedback. When I took a creative writing class recently, we had workshop days where we'd all get to critique each short story. And the author was not allowed to speak at all when their work was being talked about. We couldn't clarify or explain, our writing had to speak for itself. At the end we'd get a chance to say something, but that wasn't the important part. The feedback was. Even when someone was confused by something I wrote or didn't like where I went with something, I was grateful. Because I could work on it. I could make it better and try harder. But here...it's not like that. Once it's published, it's out there. Boom: Forever.
I started blogging again for a few different reasons, but one was to be liked. And accepted. In person, I am fairly outspoken. I do not shy away from speaking my mind. It probably leans more toward being a fault than anything, but it's there. The oddest part is not that I don't fear saying what I feel/think. It's that I strongly fear rejection. Even the word is pretty awful. In everything I do, the fear is there and it's a bugger. Anytime someone doesn't respond in email/text/call/person right away, or return an invitation I've extended, or seem to want to be friends: it's there. Twisted and smiling and waiting for me to wallow. And it damn well hurts like hell.
One of the things that's hardest for me is not knowing why. Why doesn't this person want to be friends? Why didn't they like that? Why haven't I been invited back? And on and on. The thing about life is, there's not much feedback like that. It's rare to have someone say, "You know, I just don't think we can be friends because I have boys and you have girls." Or whatever. It's not going to happen. I always want to know: "What is it about me?" But perhaps that's too selfish. Maybe it's not about me at all. But since I don't know that, it hardly makes a difference with my fear. I've already been rejected. Why matters. Oh, certainly. But the sting has been delivered and it's unlikely I'll ever know why I was rejected (or was seemingly rejected).
The icing on this pity party cake, is that I often go through seasons of loneliness. And each time, I ask God, "Why? Why are You doing this?" Sometimes, I know why. Many times, I don't. I don't know if it's my fault or if it's a lesson I'm really not getting. Tonight I asked God that. Why? Why now? And will I ever get there?
There are people out there that say Jesus should be our best friend. And maybe that's true. I think He should be more than that. But eh, best friend makes sense. There are others that say, your husband should be your best friend. And to be honest, mine is close to being my only friend, so the competition is light. And even if both of those (or one) are true, I still want a girlfriend. Like, a best girlfriend. Because as amazing and holy as Jesus is, he can't grab lunch with me; as much as I love and adore my husband, he doesn't get periods or have saggy post-patrum everything. And I need that. As humans, we long to be known. We long to have relationships.
So I guess I'm saying that I may not give up blogging. But I am going to try and care a little less about being liked and accepted. Even if I want those things. Because all I am is me. And if I'm going to fear being rejected (and perhaps even be rejected), I, at least, want to know I'm being me.