Confusing the Problem With The Issue

Everybody's got their problems

Ain't no new news here
I'm the same old trouble 
You've been having for years
Don't confuse the problem
With the issue,girl
It's perfectly clear
Just a human desire 
To have you come near.
                   "Crumblin' Down" John Mellencamp 

                        

In an effort to motivate myself to write, this is what I wrote on my XOXO Darya Fan Page:

"Note to self: Learn to write a simple post on my blog..." 

Well, hell. Problem solved.

And in a friend's infinite kindness, she commented back to me in a very encouraging manner. And because I just cannot leave well enough alone and accept love and kindness and wisdom when it is offered, I felt compelled to fire back in my usual fashion, which included a greater than healthy dose of self-deprecating humor, a big fat excuse wrapped in a dismissive attitude and then deep-fried in a smart-assed tone.

Take that, friend.

Now, I feel even more trapped and stuck then I did before I made my little Facebook dispatch, which in all honesty was meant to deploy and un-stick and re-motivate me and just basically get me writing again. In all honesty, and this may not sound like much, but to me it sounds like when a bird flies into your window and scares the hell out of you and makes you feel like the thing that holds you close and safe and secure may be knocked down by something as light and as small and as wayward as a bird, and through all of that I have found that I really enjoy writing for my little bloggity blog! And then I heard the big Hallelujah, like, the one you hear at Easter.

The problem here is I have what I believe to be a full-blown case of  acute on chronic literary constipation. Or maybe the common term is writer's block, like most things in life, I am self-taught so maybe I just do not know so much about what gets caught in a writer's craw and what gets it going again. I especially like how I referred to myself as a writer--that made me laugh out loud. Good one, D, good one.

However, all this huffing and puffing about getting writing again has enabled me to realize that I do this big weird controll-y "thing", and I do it when I see Dr. Headshrinker, and I do it when I write a blog post, and I do it in my marriage. And I know this to be true because I put it on the spreadsheet and I took it to Dr. Headshrinker for discussion and he said, "Yep. You sure do" and that was just between getting in the door and getting sat down on the couch.

Like most bad life habits, it can often be traced to early family life. We had a saying in my home that went something like this: "Darya, if you have not taken the aspirin, you are not allowed to complain about the headache."

Clearly, I took this missive and ran with it into adulthood as, "Suffer in silence with your stupid personality altering and blindingly terrifying problem until you, and YOU ALONE have come up with a solution. FOR. FOREVER. AND EVER." 

Not until I have come up with some sort of solution or rationalization or justification for "the problem" do I engage Dr. Headshrinker or the Caveman or whomever. And by "engage", I mean discuss the shit out of "the problem" until everyone including the people who love me unconditionally and/or are paid to hear about "the problem" are sick to death of me and "the problem".

In some ways, I think this is good. For one thing, it makes me appear like I am always in deep and thoughtful repose, which makes me at least look smarter than I am; although, it may also make me look older and probably even more constipated for real-sy; however, on the upside, all that needless "thinking"' burns a lot of calories, which helps me to stay naturally slim without the benefit of that pesky methamphetamine addiction because my skin is bad enough and I am deathly afraid of meth-mouth, so ultimately I really ain't about that kinda life.

In most ways, it is just not very productive and this probably more than anything leads to me looking older and more confused than my actual years. Seriously, I do not possess the kind of discernment that allows me the luxury of  willy-nilly imaginary "problem solving". I mean, for chrissake, who do I think I am--I do not possess a PhD nor a PsyD nor an MD nor even a whatfuckingeverD. It is like I feel obligated to do all of our jobs--like I am not pulling my weight or I am not being insightful or astute or intelligent enough.

Unfortunately, if you follow this little diatribe to its most plausible and obvious conclusion, that leaves this post with no ending, which also leaves me very uncomfortable; however, I have indeed written something which makes me substantially less keyboard constipated.

So, there's that. And that is a good thing because I sure do love my little bloggity blog.

I think we all may just have to suffer through a few more of these hopelessly meandering-styled posts for me to find my way back on track.

My apologies in advance.

xoxo Darya