Yesterday, I went a little crazy. For those of you not expecting any posts from me for a while — you know, because sticking a fork in one’s eye is not good for posting — I’m sorry I scared you so much. I’m still around, my eyes have not gone the way of Oedipus, and I promise they won’t anytime in the near future.
Yes. I should have toned down the language. I shouldn’t have discussed self-injury in the (cavalier) way that I did. My heart goes out to people who have lifelong struggles with self-injury. You have no idea how awful I feel about the strength of my emotions and the way I expressed them.
Yet, in some bizarre way, this is proof that Subterfuge is working. It’s working because it’s a place I trust. I yell and rave and confess here as I would in an empty room. I did not hold back.
The point of the post, the parts about being incapacitated by my performance anxiety, are real. I always have been. Many of my future confessions will star my inability to cope with my demons, and my anxiety is my demon king. It always lurks at the back of my mind, stomping through the hallways of my brain, taking phone calls for me, running my life.
Something as deceptively simple as leaving a comment on a website can cause me so much anguish. And that was the perfect moment for me to write about it, because it’s like a fingerprint — a snapshot — of how I am feeling. This is what I’ve always intended the confessionals to be. Raw and present. Sometimes the distance is necessary. Sometimes it’s impossible. In this case I wouldn’t have been able to move on, blunt the edges of my rage and sadness, without writing about it.
What I felt at the time was disproportionate to the severity of the situation. But it was how I felt, and though I said some awful things, I can’t take it back. If I did, I would be lying to myself.
I hope, going forward, others use Subterfuge in the same way. That I can be as non-judgmental and understanding to others as my readers have been with me. That this will encourage people to be brutally honest with themselves. Writing is a form of surrender, I think, and I surrendered. Maybe a little too much, but the rewards do exist. I do have a better understanding of myself at my worst. So does everybody else.
And I guess that was the point.