Honesty, transparency, and health.

I go back and forth fairly often, trying to decide what I want to say and what format I want to say it in. My life isn't secret, by any stretch, but I try to practice boundaries. Some things shouldn't be thrown out into the public world. Other things need to be thrown out. Most things are really in between.

Social media is a beast I wrestle with regularly. Using it, turning it off, hating it but participating, and so many things in between. And yet, blog posting seems much more indirect. Virtually no one "follows" a blog post anymore. Or, at least not mine. I'm not complaining. I'm trying to explain. Or understand myself, I suppose.

Tonight, I had a wonderful painful long talk with a friend. Mostly, I talked and she listened. Today has been a hard day, and she's a wonderful listener. She regularly interrupted me to encourage me to be nice to myself. [She has this strong stance that I need to be much kinder to my own self than I am in everyday practice.] I cried. I jumped from one tale to another. I tried to explain complicated things in simple ways. There were long moments of silence while I tried to keep it together rather than be taken over by sobs. There were moments I garbled, trying to talk through the heaviness in my chest and the thickness in my throat, and I don't know how she could understand - except that it wasn't the words in that moment, but rather the love. She was able to reach to me from 650 miles away and (figuratively) put her hand on my shoulder until I could bear up under my own life again.

And during one of the times I listened, she told me that I should write it all down and then ask myself

[Was that sad?
Was that hard?
Was that hurtful?
Was that wonderful?
Was that unique?
Was that an important part of my experience?]

"Are these things 'just' anything?"

I may be misquoting her. I'm sure of it, in fact. But these are the words I've carried forward, and I believe I  know her well enough that if she reads this she'll just nod in satisfaction that I got the message.

My response: I don't write anymore. It's one of the things that goes away when I'm 'well' medicated.

Part of today's experience is that I'm no longer well medicated. So, here we are. Writing. I'm not sure what about exactly.

Sadness, maybe. Or just the emptiness that goes along with pouring out all the words, but feeling unheard. I'm not sure.

I'm going to work on this for awhile. Boundaries. Outlets. Sharing. Not sharing.

The thing is, I have a lot I want to say. I a lot I want to tell. But I'm not sure where to tell it, or to whom I wish to speak.