A year and a half after promising to emerge from unintentional and occasional but still neglectful hiding, followed by sudden, self-imposed and seemingly permanent blog exile, I appear to have returned. What can it mean? Why would la bohémienne have been satisfied to navel gaze in solitude all of this time, and then, without warning (to herself or to others), feel a need to share all that lint with all and sundry once more?

There is only one possible explanation.

I crave attention. Your attention. The need has never fully disappeared. It was there, lurking barely beneath the surface, waiting to emerge when my attention was elsewhere. Angst doesn’t go away, not really. It just hides, and attacks when defenses are low. And now, I feel as vulnerable to that attack as I have in many months.

If I must be honest (must I?), I secretly enjoy that vulnerability. It seems to me that every grand and intense experience occurs when I feel least able to handle the consequences. That seems a fair trade-off to a self-identified drama queen.

So here I am, ready to verbally wring my hands and wail my confusion in (anonymous) public once more. I do hope that you will accept this implied apology. I know that I’ve taken you for granted, and I really don’t deserve a second chance. I know you, though, and your legendary generosity. If you take me back, believe me, read me, tell me you love me, I promise to be faithful to you, only you, only all of you.

Or at least occasionally amuse you with my not-so-quiet desperation.

Write It Out!

December 6, 2007

I wake up with a low rumbling at the edge of my consciousness. I’m not immediately certain whether this is a headache or the angst of the night making a last protest and grab at my attention before receding at the approaching day. The sensation does not pass, though. It insists and takes hold, until I am forced to recognize it. It steals the tepid pleasure from the pale wintry sun trying weakly to push its sickly rays through the blinds across the room. It resonates with the sound of the alarm shrilling suddenly, as always 5 minutes too late. I’m already awake, or the next thing to it. The buzzing at the back of my head is now a throbbing. It is pain, but it is also memory, a feeling that is hanging on too long, according to my practical daily self, and the practical daily people who tell me to move on, let go, get over it. I placidly, obediently agree. I set my conditions, double my efforts, and refuse to give in.

It doesn’t go away, though. It stays there, buzzing, rumbling, throbbing, ready for the next grey morning, to remind me. It always infiltrates slowly, day after day, this knowledge of my unhappiness. I’m running out of options, though, of energy for fighting it, beating it down. Moving on, letting go, getting over it… that’s the easy part. The thing, though, that presence, that knowledge follows me, through my day, giving me respite only at night, knowing that it is waiting, hovering to push back in with my consciousness. It, memory, has to let go of me, and it hasn’t.

I’ve tried talking it out of me. I can’t do that any more. I’m the one who is talked out. I have attempted to cry it out, walk it out, think it out. It’s stubborn. It hangs on, as if with the primitive understanding that, once out, it will not be welcomed back. This is my next essay. This time, I will try to write it out. If I get the words just right, just write, it will fly from me, out the tips of my fingers, with those words, into space, into emptiness, I don’t care where.  I need to type the magic words, the sentence that will free of my self-imposed sentence. Can it be as simple as knowing the incantation? I suspect that even this apparently magical solution will not rid me of this burden.