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I find many great, some fabulous, and other lacking blogs. I read some. Some I speed read some blogs. Last, I pass over some blogs. My Monday mind wonders; do people read blogs anymore?
Has society moved from reading newspapers, to reading online news and blogs to just thumbing through Facebook, Twitter and Instagram? I am not putting anyone down at all. The truth is over the past years, I have evolved into mind of countless worthless events full of FB posts and Tweets.
In the past, I valued the desire to learn new and creative things. I read blogs. I read the news. I would look to learn new things about the global society, but now it appears as technology has made it simpler to waste my time on mindless activities of others.
Do you still read blogs?
Response to: Why I stopped writing
The therapist looked at Brooke and asked, “Did you love her?”
“Yes, I mean no. I hated her, but of course I loved her. She was my mom. She was sick. She was always sick.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she was mentally ill. She always told me how much she never wanted me. She pimped out my sister at a truck stop. She hit us. She beat us. She hated us. However, no matter how sick she was I loved her, because I knew she was sick.”
“hmm…” The therapist wrote in the file. The he looked up and said, “ You know why you feel the way you do?”
Brooke shook her head no.
“Because you are not ready to give up that storyline. That story was written. It is over. For your whole life you were the unwanted, neglected and beaten child. Now the main character is dead and you don’t want to let go. You only know that storyline. That’s the story you are comfortable with, but the main character is dead so the only way to continue to live that storyline is for you recall those bad times. The more you recall the bad times the more you suffer as you always had before your mother died. The good news for you is that she is gone. The story is over. Time to move on. Stop focusing on that story. Start focusing on another storyline. Write a new one.”
Brooke wiped her tears and looked up. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is. The book is closed. The story is over. Now, you can be anything you want to be. What do you want to be?”
“I don’t know. I never thought of it that way.”
“Do you want to be a villain, hero, victim or leader?”
“I want to be.”
“Then find yourself.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“The person you were for the past 40 years, the one who sat here crying is not the person you are. It was the person you once were. Now is time to re-identify with yourself. Once you find the new you, you will never feel like you did as you did when you came in here.”
“Ok, but where do I start.”
“That’s not for me to answer. I’m just your therapist and your time is over for today.”
“Ok, but then how do I find out where to start. Who do I talk to?”
“A friend, go talk to a friend.”
“But I don’t have any. That is why I come here.”
“Then go find one.”
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“Why did you stop writing?”
Brooke sat slouched over with her elbows on her knees and face in the palm of her hands. She said nothing, but shrugged her shoulders.
“I can’t help you if you are not willing to talk. What happened?”
“Stuff, lots of stuff, my world seemed to just fold one storyline after another until I had no story left.”
“Your writing just stopped?”
“No, my world. I was someone. I used to write. I used to have an opinion, and people used to read my writing. It was like I was on a roll at a blackjack table and then it just stopped. I used to feel like something big was going to happen, something really great, but then I realized it wasn’t. That is when my life started falling to shit.”
“So, your writing stopped and your life fell to shit. Is that what you are saying?”
“No, my life fell to shit and my writing stopped.”
“Ok, then why do you think this happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Ok, maybe but I don’t want to say it. If I say it you will think I am nuts.” She inhales a big breath and slowly exhales like she was practicing yoga or Lamaze. “The suicide…” She inhales another big breath and exhales. “ When she took her life, it was like she stole mine too or at least my happiness.”
“Who? Who is she? Who took who’s life?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Tears rolled down her eyes.
“Brooke, we have been meeting once a week for over a year, and I don’t know what you are talking about. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”
“I know. I know, but this is real and it hurts. It still hurts just like it did the day it happened. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to live a happy life and I have done pretty ok. I mean people think I am happy. I do feel happy at times, but deep down she is always there. The sad part is I can only remember her dead body, the bad times, the sad times and very few good times. I just want it all to go away.”
“This is why you should write. You need to write about this. This story is real and people like you can get comfort knowing about what you are going through.”
“Yeah, that is what I thought too. Then literary agent after agent rejected me. I got to the point where I was numb. All The literary agents want from me is to write humor, but it takes every ounce of strength to find the energy to be happy. I am too tired trying to be happy that I can’t. You know what I am?”
The therapist shook his head.
“I am sad. I am fucking sad. I cry myself to sleep almost every night and that has been for ten years, 3,650 day and I don’t want to be sad anymore. The worst part is that being sad in today’s society is just not ok. It is no longer accepted. No one wants to see the tears, hear the cries or talk about the bad in life. I just can’t be fake. I am me and right now that is a sad person. I just want to
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