I'm Definitely Not Writing About That
Me, not yelling at my kids
Sometimes I get all brave and think I am going to write about really personal, intense stuff, like I did when I wrote that last blog post, But sometimes, I chicken out. I'm seriously working on not doing that anymore...the chickening out part I mean. So, at the prompting of my writing teacher, I started making a list of things I'm not writing about right now, and then this kind of happened.......
Some of the Things I’m Not Writing About Right Now
I am not writing about the way I sometimes yell at my kids, like my mother yelled at me, and many other mothers yell at their kids too, and then I feel guilty for it and consistently vow to do better next time. And mostly, I do.
Or about what happened the time I went to the high school graduation that wasn’t mine, with a guy I knew I didn’t trust, as a favour to a friend, and how I learned that I should have paid more attention to my father when he told me to always listen to my gut. I also learned that people sometimes do deplorable, regretful things when they’re drunk. #metoo
I'm not writing about how I’m pretty sure food has saved my family and my sanity, more than once.
I am definitely not writing about the fact that to me, lack of self-awareness is the most frustrating quality in a person…aside from being a total asshole. Like for example, when someone (usually a boss or authority figure) thinks they are a ‘people person’, but really, they are just a pushy, arrogant know it all, who scares and irritates everyone.
Or about how then, I start thinking that maybe I need to be more understanding and that maybe I’m not as self-aware as I think I am, and maybe everyone else thinks I’m just a big selfish, bossy asshole, while I’m over here thinking I’m so evolved and stuff. Nope, not writing about that.
Or about how I am completely, irrationally terrified of losing my husband or my kids. Like to the point of sometimes, it wakes me up at night and I have to gasp to catch my breath from the fear of even thinking about it.
Nor am I writing ANYTHING about my very complicated relationship with my parents, or how I’m pretty sure there should be some kind of Netflix original series, or maybe a musical based on it. Stay tuned.
Or that sometimes I wonder, ‘WTF was I thinking when my soul decided to incarnate into this particular reality in this lifetime?' Next time, I am definitely coming back as some self-involved movie star, or a silent monk who never has to deal with actual people, or possibly Richard Branson, or maybe a cat with really kind owners, who only have one cat.
I’m not writing about how I used to have really bad, debilitating anxiety, and that I refused to take prescription medication for it, except that once, for a whole lot of complicated reasons. Or how that first REALLY bad panic attack I had, made me stop smoking pot in my 20s. Which is probably a good thing. Not the panic attack part, but the not smoking pot anymore part. That’s really good, because I mostly like being productive, and not binge eating.
Or about how I should probably delete that last thing because I am terrified that my kids, or your kids, will read this one day and think their mother/aunt/teacher/friend’s mother/mother's friend, was a pot head…which for the record, I never was. Seriously, my kid said he would refuse to vote for Justin Trudeau because he wanted to legalize marijuana, so can you imagine if he reads this? I would be banished and mortified.
I am certainly not writing about how I often wonder what would happen if we stopped trying to put band aids on diseases that eat people’s souls.
Or, about the fact that in my first year of university, I lived in a townhouse on campus with 5 other girls, 3 of whom had eating disorders, and how it was really hard for me because I LOVE food, and have never had that kind of a relationship with it. I didn’t understand how my roommate could eat all of the groceries I bought in one night, and never offer to pay me back, or how she could take my car or my clothes without asking. Attempting to understand the ‘why’ behind all of this (I always need to know the why), meant I eventually learned a lot about how complicated eating disorders are, and even wrote a thesis on it.
I am most definitely not writing about, how I came home from a party at the pub that first year of university, and this guy who lived a few doors down from us, was sitting on our garbage box, totally intoxicated and attempting to cut himself, or how he went into a diabetic seizure and swallowed his tongue right there in front of me, and I had to scream for help while I tried to pry his tongue loose with the end of a toothbrush. The following year, I heard he died.
And lastly, I am SO not writing about, how that same year, the guy I had been in total love with since I was 15, called to tell me he had gotten his neighbour pregnant and wished it was me instead. I hated him in that moment and definitely didn’t wish it was me. I eventually got over it, and that’s a good thing, because I met my husband instead, and because about 10 years ago, that guy died. I went to his funeral, and re-lived the past for about three solid days, and that was necessary, but really, really hard.
Nope, I’m not writing about any of that right now. Maybe someday I will though.
Me, in my next life....maybe....unless I decide to come back as a monk.