(Or we can call this Diaries of a Hereditary Alcoholic. Though I only partake once a month or so…)
But in reality I’m just going to write drunk first and see how that goes. I might try editing sober the next time, but baby steps, right? And if nothing else, you should get a good chuckle out of my Sweet Tea vodka-and-lemonade-fueled blog post.
At the moment I’m fresh out of a hot bath sitting in the dark on my bed listening to Pandora, but when I go out, drunk looks a little (very little!) better one me:
Trust me. That is better.
In case you’ve been slacking off in your reading or you’re a new visitor to RPSLS (thank you!), I’m taking part in Blogging 101. For today’s challenge we have…um…nothing.
It’s a “free day.” Normally I’d say, “Yay! No homework!” But writers actually enjoy this stuff, and as we’ve discussed I’m a closeted writer. Since I’ve been thinking about facing fears as of late, I thought I could take this intoxicated opportunity to talk one of my big fears: vulnerability.
(Let’s all take a moment to be impressed that I can spell vulnerability after two tumbler’s full of vodka…..Okay, you can continue reading now. )
In my estimation this requires a lot of trust. And that, as is turns out, is NOT something I do easily. I always see quotes about how “it’s the strong man who cries” or whatever, but for whatever reason that’s just not my style. Strong to me looks a lot like being your typical 1950’s dad who never breaks character – always calm, always with all the answers, always with poise and stoicism. The rock for everyone to lean on, the safe harbor to cling to.
My most vulnerable post to date was the series on my dad’s death. I am pretty proud of that because somehow that seems natural to me – not truly weak or vulnerable. Just…real. It is what it is, as they say.
Every other day, though?
I’m THE MAN.
Yes, I get that I’m actually a woman, and no I’m not part of the LGBT community, though I would be proud to be if I was. What I mean is, I’m the 1950’s dad. At work, with friends, in crowds, sometimes even at home.
I have no idea why I can’t break that wall down. Perhaps it’s a fear of rejection, or a fear of being seen as weak, or of being classified as a “girl” when in fact I’m just as capable (if not more so) than all the men next to me in line, or as a result of my upbringing… Or maybe it’s some combination of all of those things. I’m just not the damsel in distress. I can’t be. Because I won’t be.
But here’s the thing…
Sometimes I wish I could be.
There are days when I’m so tired. When I’m so…done. When I want to just say exactly what I’m feeling to the person or event toward whom I’m feeling it.
My pride just gets in the way, I suppose.
I guess it’s a little sad, because there are many truths that will forever go unspoken for me. But that’s my choice. Or rather, that my fear and my pride silencing me.
But I know we’re all fearful, prideful, all broken sometimes.
So here’s the important question:
What are your fears? What is your vulnerability? Do you have someone who sees it? Who sees you?