Writing as therapy: Fear and judgement

I have writer's block. Again. This block is a big one with the label "FEAR" etched across it. And so I find myself again blogging about my fear of blogging.

Makes for boring reading, no?

It's not like I don't have anything to say. I've got a list of blog titles and even folders of photos to accompany some of them, but actually sitting here and writing it up seems like such a chore.

I don't think I'm consciously worried about stats. In fact my unique monthly hits are higher than they ever have been, despite my slow blogging. And I'm pretty sure there's not too many of you (if any) out there hanging out for my next post. But I still feel that I should  be getting my words out ("Use your words, Vanessa"). For me. For my son. Maybe. I don't know why.

I'm going through a really blah period of my life. I have no real passion for anything. Of course, my five year old is everything to me, and my love and excitement for Noo will never cease. But the rest of life? Blah.

Boredom makes me hyper-aware of all that ails me - my knee which needs surgery later this year, my coccyx which is arthritic and worn thanks to that fateful night way back in 2007, constant constipation thanks to psych medication that I just can't survive without, headaches, anxiety about money, weight woes, loneliness...

Truth be told, I probably have too much time on my hands. I know what I want/need to do but as always fear holds me back.

Once again I fear the possible repercussions of my writing. Someone dear to me (who shall remain nameless) said by putting our (and by "our" I mean bloggers, Twitterers, Facebookers, celebrities, anyone on social media or in the public eye) life online we open ourselves up and invite criticism and judgement. That basically if you get bullied for what you've disclosed online, you kind of deserve it, because if you didn't expose yourself to the world you wouldn't have gotten bullied in the first place.

Personally, I call bullshit. Because it's kind of the same as saying if I didn't go out on Friday 17 April 2007 and get drunk, then I wouldn't have been raped. This theory places the responsibility and blame for the crime on me, the victim, rather than on he/she  the rapist/bully.

I have never been trolled online which I'm so grateful for. I've read what some people say about some bloggers and it fills me with dread that anyone could possibly dissect my life like that. But I don't think those trolls or forums which facilitate them should be banned. I regard freedom of speech as one of the most important values in our society. Banning such sites would do more harm than good as a whole. But, what I don't understand, is how anyone could even think of those things to say about people, let alone publish them publicly in order to ridicule them.

A lot of what I've published here has taken a huge amount of courage and a massive chunk of my heart and soul has gone into putting the words together. I told the story about my past problems with drugs and alcohol, about being raped, about my endless struggles with mental illness because I want to help people. I want others who may be in a similar situation know they are not alone.

But I'm not just fearful of what I blog about, I'm scared about what people in the real world might say/think about me if they got to know me. I avoid social situations. I fear the question "So, what do you do?".

I don't know what the fuck I do. I survive each day. Is that not enough?

I stand by my belief that the only way to kill stigma is to talk about the things that some sections of society try to shame us about. For some reason I feel I need to reaffirm this belief to myself, and to you, so I can keep writing. Hiding in the shadows is only going to feed the fear. Standing up and declaring who I am and owning it should surely make me stronger.

So here I am:

Hello my name is Vanessa and

    I am a recovering alcoholic and drug addict

      I suffer from have PTSD, Generalised Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder and ADHD

        I take various psychiatric medications

            I have a lap-band and weigh about 92 kg

               I have been a victim of violent crime on three separate occasions in my life

                     I'm a single parent

                          I don't have a job

Fear and judgement can kiss my arse

I'm sick of living a fearful life.

The truth of it is, the only troll in my life is me. I am my own worst enemy and most critical judge.

Build a bridge, Vanessa, and get over it. Fear can kiss your arse!


V.

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Finding my voice

I am all alone today. The apartment is so quiet I can only hear the sounds of my fingers against the keyboard and the hum of my computer.

Mum and dad have taken Noo to their home in the Blue Mountains so I can have some 'me time'. I've spent most of that time so far in front of screens - my laptop and the telly - or sleeping.

I guess in an ideal world I would be going on a date with someone new or seeing a boyfriend or even going out with girlfriends. But I am at home, alone and I'm ok with that.

That's what worries me.

When I was a little girl I always knew I wanted to get married and have kids. Having my own family is really the only ambition I've ever had. I remember sitting on the steps of the terrace house I grew up in and saying to my mother "My husband is out there, mum. He's alive, I just haven't met him yet". I was about eight years old at the time.

Here I am, nearly 30 years later, and I'm nowhere near finding this mystery man who is suppose to be my husband. And I don't know if I ever will meet him. I actually cannot fathom ever being in a proper stable relationship with a man who loves me for who I am, whom I can trust with all my heart and who I could possibly create a family with.

I have been on my own (with the exception of a few very brief relationships) for most of my adult life. I used to be so desperate for a boyfriend, so desperate to be loved and to have someone to share my life with but now, I don't know, I feel like I've given up.

I'm 37 and I've given up on any hope of love.

Kinda makes me want to cry when I see that on the screen.

I have my son. My beautiful little boy, Noo. He is the love of my life. But he will grow up and will go on and find his own love, be it boy or girl, and I will be happy for him, and I will let him go.

I have my parents, of whom I am so close, but they will die.

And I will truly be alone.

What will I do then?

I will be old and dried up and more unlovable than I am now.

Time is moving so fast! Tick tock goes my biological clock.

But I am damaged. I have baggage. A whole shipping container load full. Nobody wants baggage. But this baggage is what makes me... or does it break me?

I am crying now as I type this. Alone in my room I share with my son who is not here.

I am crying because by typing these words, I am allowing myself to feel them, I am finding my voice and it scares me.

Shrink says I don't feel my pain enough. I laugh it off all the time. I am self deprecating.

From next week I am going back into weekly therapy because I am so scared I will be alone forever.

Shrink says I need to feel things.

Why feel anything when all there is is pain?

V.