The funny thing about this blog, and I think any personal, anonymous, blog is just that: it is personal and anonymous. The thoughts and feelings I post here are mine, and mine alone. I may be misguided sometimes, but my posts are honest and truthful from the standpoint of any private diary, which is, of course an ego-driven exercise to begin with. That the blog is anonymous protects me and those I write about from public exposure and scrutiny. If my experiences can help someone else who may read this is a benefit that I may never see. My father has decided that to read this blog is a violation of that privacy and so he has set boundaries for himself: he doesn’t read it.
It is only my ego-centric self-importance that assumes that my life is so special, so unique, as to warrant fear that the outside world will take any real interest in these postings. The whole thing could be complete fiction for all anyone knows. There is certainly nothing unique about family dysfunction, resentment, fear, and anger. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have some sort of familial angst banging around in their cupboards.
Today, my anger revolves around my ability to play the victim in my life. If I travel down that path I assume that I am innocent of any wrongdoing, and merely a puppet manipulated by the cruel and unfair hands of the Dark Puppeteer up in the rafters of my memory. Thankfully this is not true. I have done wrong to others and myself, and I have taken responsibility for those wrongs. Only my own paranoia and fear want me to continue to jiggle on the end of a set of frayed and dusty strings. By playing that role I choose to keep secrets, not talk about my fears, and hide. By taking that extra step and moving through my fear I discover what many before me already have: that fear is a bogeyman, the monster under the bed, the shadow in the corner. In the clear light of day I see the truth. Under the bed are dust bunnies, the corner is just a corner, and there is no bogeyman.
Only me.
Once again I have been castigated for my blog. Not by the (also) anonymous public, but by my family. Perhaps someday I’ll write a book about the whole experience and be done with it. A previous posting has caused so much pain that a potential family get-together may fall to ruins. I am sorry if I hurt anyone, but my own angers at myself tend to push me towards the puppet show and once again I find myself being showcased by the Dark Puppeteer as a prime example of the Perfect Victim. This is no excuse for lacking in restraint of tongue and pen, but the difference is that today I am willing and able to assume responsibility for my actions and also not blow them out of proportion. I am willing to not play either the Perfect Victim or the Dark Puppeteer in my life.
The world is not watching. The world doesn’t care. The world is worried about itself, not some 2-bit free blog on the Net.
I’ve cut through the strings. I’m not afraid to stand limp and unsure. It’s only my flawed and human memory telling me that I cannot stand.
Johnnyboy