I can’t tell you that…

I’m going against my natural instincts. They are never to share. Blogging is so freaking alien. I was born in 1960, missed being Gen X, made it into the Baby Boomer generation by literally 8 weeks, but sometimes think i am a sekrit 1930’s gel who’s been trained to keep the real shit to myself.

When i told a friend i’d been offline (this was a few years ago) because i was depressed and didn’t feel like inflicting my real life downer on my virtual community. He was SHOCKED. He’s decades younger than me, and told me straight up, i should have said something online. I loved him for his concern but tell everyone i was depressed? Pht. Or perhaps ffft. Not sure of the spelling there, but take it as an expression of disbelief.

Every time i see that “ruok” anti-suicide campaign, where you say to someone who might be depressed, “are you ok?” and they are so grateful they don’t open their veins/OD/jump off the nearest cliff, but instead say “well actually i’m totes depressed and ready to like, pinterest my suicide plans but yr concern means i am now ready to live again!” i feel like laughing. I was relieved to see a few other pplz also saying, gawd, anyone realise really depressed pplz lie??” Yes, you can tell by my overuse of Z that i’ve been back on Twitter.

However, i can understand that for other people, opening your veins in a figurative sense on social media is a way to ease that feeling of aloneness. I wish that worked for me when i’m depressed. So if you’re like me, and people offering sympathy/feelingz makes you want to run away, smiling brightly all the time, not because you don’t appreciate their concern, but because nothing stops the fucking pain… perhaps see a psychologist (because that DID work for me).

This most recent time, i was lucky enough to claw my way out of the pit with the skills psychoanalysis gave me, plus time and facing up to the meatspace limitations of some of the people around me – the ones i love possibly the most, who really just don’t get me. Note, some, not all. Mr Whatsit fortunately continues as my most companionable rock, and to both our surprise, my ex has proven he’s really a pretty decent bloke.

I don’t like to judge. Wait, that’s a complete freaking lie, i’m human, ergo i judge but try to resist the urge, or at least correct my initial judgemental stance with reason. Fortunately i don’t always achieve this state of Zen and my Twitter is more interesting as a result.

I’ve only been back a week or so on Twitter (trying to log on every couple of days), still seeing people i adore and thinking, omg how did i live without you???? I’m surprised how many of my Twitter list i do adore – pretty much all of them.The ones i don’t completely adore, i’m terrifically fond of/in total awe of.

Having working computers at last helps make it enjoyable again – my stopgap computer wasn’t Twitter friendly, it tended to do its own thing and suddenly hit links i didn’t want to explore or hit Send before i’d finished typing a tweet – which as any twitter user knows, is a diabolical thing to happen when you’re still editing out the libelous bits.

Being comfortable with wittering on is another thing – not sure i’m there yet. Baring my soul in fiction is one thing, doing it in a tweet or a blog post quite another. If caught being real in fiction, i can always say oh, hey, not me, dudes, that’s the character! Whereas i’m supposed to be real in my social media thingies. I have enough trouble just spelling it out properly, the urge to write it as soshal meejah is overwhelming. Follow enough PR pplz, this will happen to you too.

While i wasn’t on Twitter, i indulged in stuff. TV (while i write this, i’m indulging in the entire season 5 of Catfish), books, (god bless the library), editing Books 2 and 3 of my trilogy, which isn’t quite finished, and getting bits of me scanned. This last is because bits of me were possibly cancerous. So far, they aren’t. One more to go, MRI due 1st June, and two ops after that to remove bits that while not cancerous don’t get to hang around.

Funnily, this is the closest i’ve come to taking up smoking again, after an entire decade stopped. I resisted. The face of the medical professional when i told her i’d taken up drinking to punish my liver for showing overload symptoms after i hadn’t drunk more than twice a year for thirty years was funny, but i thought she might have a full-on seizure if i took up smoking to show my body i wasn’t going to be dictated to.

Yeah, the illogic of it strikes me too – looks like i’m still not what you’d call sane, eh?

Yanno, i feel better for talking to you – thanks for listening.

copyright 2016 https://stinginthetail.wordpress.com

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