I really need to vent. I can’t. I’m trapped.
I have to remind myself a lot lately that I’m doing OK. Things are good.
I can’t offer details. I’m stuck in this house and feel as though circumstances are preventing me from opening up. There are eyes and ears everywhere. No escape.
It’s not even safe here (here this blog here) anymore. All my aliases are connected behind the scenes and all one has to Google and there I am. The clandestine revealed.
Keeping things inside is not healthy. People need to vent so they can let go. I don’t know, maybe people don’t need that but I do. And the subject matters and incidents are growing inside of me. No way for them to escape.
Instead of writing about these concerns, I turn to statistics, my health, work I’m doing and the hum-drum of the everyday. A mask for what’s really going on with no way to connect the dots. I feel ashamed for feeling like I need to keep secrets from my therapist. (Hint: That’s you).
I’m pretty sure when I started this blog in 2017 that I didn’t hold back like I do now. What has changed? Is it the google factor? Is it that I’ve got way more to lose now? Perhaps it’s one of those things that I’m just not sure how to begin.. complicated topics. That I don’t have the time.
That’s not it. I have time.
Now that I’ve gotten this far into writing today, hopefully anyone reading has lost interest and clicked away or scrolled on. Hopefully it’s just me now, reading my thoughts as I write them. Because I need to confess something, one of many things.
I’m filtering the poems I’m sharing with my husband. Sometimes he asks me to read him one. Maybe I’m excited about an acceptance I’ve received and he says “I want to hear that one.” I should be happy. that he wants to hear them. I am happy about that, but I’m running out of poems to share.
I fib and say, “I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.” Or, in the week I had more than one poem accepted, I elected just to not read the one that gave me pause. What am I not sharing?
The answer is quite a bit.
I won’t share any “Castle” poems, or anything that includes detail about my past loves. Sharing the latter is how I first realized that these kinds of poems bother him. As if I’m not supposed to have a past. That I’ve been in love with other people or that I hold on to those parts of my past in a way that makes him feel, jealous or threatened In some way. All of it makes me who I am, not just the bits I write that are entirely general. In general, one of the things the MFA taught me is that specifics are necessary, tangible, relatable and that if I continue to dabble in sky writing from a 10,000 foot view, then it’s not going to be as impactful. I digress.
So I filter for the sake of his feelings and my own. But the issue goes deeper than that.
Twice now he’s accused me of entertaining thoughts about other men. One man specifically. Both times he confronted me, he was under the influence. I was hurt by this. I was hurt by the insinuations and also by the fact that he thinks it would be possible that I could get tangled into something with another man. Especially THIS man. It’s absurd and there are absolutely no grounds for it.
I have a fair bit of friends who are men and I have a past. A few of the people I have been friends with I have also fooled around with in the past. Fooled. And none of them is the man that was brought up in those two very uncomfortable conversations.
It’s a good thing most of my poems about heartbreak are crap and will never get published anywhere. I can just sweep all those into a virtual pile, and never look at them again. And never be put in the position where he wants me to read them.
Good gravy – this is not even the topic that I was thinking about writing but could not when I started today, but it is one of several that bugs me that I don’t feel like I can share with anyone. Perhaps I need an actual therapist. But do people get therapists just to vent how they feel. Maybe why I need it is so I can come to terms with my thoughts and somehow feel comfortable enough that I can share them. I mean, if he (my Husband) can confront me with what he’s thinking and feeling then why can’t I.
Why can’t I share the deeper, more detailed poems? Perhaps it just takes time. To be fair, I have only known him for two and a half years, and everything happened so fast. It’s not like I have had 5 years to learn to trust my everything with him. Maybe next time he says he wants to hear a poem, I should read him one I know will make him uncomfortable. Trust him to handle it the same way I have had to handle a growing list of things that make me uncomfortable about living here. See, now that just sounds spiteful.
And the Universe help us all if HE ever read my blog and read this. I think both our heads would explode. I’m pretty sure he has no idea that I write all the time and post it to a blog on the internet.
I’ve got a long list of stuff I want to get done today and I’d better get after it.
Wishing I had more time,