A N N A J O H N ' S D I A R Y

March 12: Things Fall Apart

I checked my alerts, saw a new post on SM. 

Read that post and comments, noticed that I was getting credit for something I did not do.

I got confused; I surfed back to past SM post to see who wrote the post I didn't write.

Read the post, started skimming the comments.

Saw a super-courteous, and much-appreciated (even a year later) comment which directed thread-jackers elsewhere, to a whole new post/discussion on that person's own blog.

Followed the link and read the post; still smiling at this point, what an awesome thing for them to do.

Read the first comment and felt like Bruce Banner, turning green as my shirt shredded.

Hulk mad.

Immediately started to respond.

Paused.

Hulk sad.

Realized that many of the people who frequent that space dislike both me and SM.

Asked myself what good would or could come, from my addressing closed minds.

Stifled my inner-15-year-old, who is not so clear-headed, calm or philosophical.

Immediately comforted said 15-year-old, who internally wailed, "I can't keep this in!  Stop telling me that I shouldn't leave this comment because I'll be over it by tomorrow!  YOU'RE NOT EVEN MY REAL MOM!"

Sighed.

Remembered that this is why I have this diary, which I have not felt safe to express myself in, for over a year.

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Sometimes, I just wish I could stay at church.

It is the safest, most peaceful place I know and it's beautiful, too. 

Light focuses through the dome, like heaven shining one golden beam at a time; it's the opposite of the searchlights one sees outside of clubs or parties.  This light isn't agitating for anything or beseeching us for our attention.  This light is calm and each mote illuminated by it starts to resemble a manifestation of grace.

The mosaiced faces of Saints gaze down at me from every arch, with their oversized Byzantine eyes, and those eyes, they are so evocative and wise.  Those eyes are expressive, perfected by humility and tempered with sadness.  Such eyes don't dance, they watch, with the intense worry of a new parent beholding their child.

The Byzantine chanting gloriously ricochets throughout the cathedral.  It is emotional xanax, the purest anxiolytic substance possible, available without a prescription for over two millenia.  Each chorus is so gorgeous, such notes seem like the only apposite way to communicate with the divine.

While the choir sings dazzling ancient invocations, I commune with those who are lost, some of whom I was never allowed to meet.  My identity, my blood, on either side, flows through the Orthodox church.  My ancestors never haunt me anywhere else, which is my loss, for such visits are like a cool hand on an ever-feverish forehead. 

And me, I am in the left corner of the pew, in the left corner of the church, on the left side of the Lord, just feet from the memorial for the dead, which is exactly where I belong.  Waiting pensively for Holy Communion, repeating the prayers with which one prepares for such mysteries, because surely whatever I've said is lacking, either I didn't concentrate properly or give each word the reverence required...whatever I've murmured in supplication is not enough.

It isn't.

If it were, I would not be alone.

My heart would not have broken twice today.

My lap would not contain a pool of my tears.

My G-d is a jealous G-d, but he has flawless hearing for his childrens' cries.  If only he could hear mine. 

"Tell me why, don't we try, not to break our hearts, and make it so hard for ourselves?"

Hey there.

You, yes you who I just deleted over there, who is not reading this, over here, on my personal blog. 

I typed a long, earnest comment to you, asking you please, not to mischaracterize my actions  or intentions, because your manipulating the situation was unfair and would only further derail the thread.  Contrary to what you allege, we DO delete for off-topic comments.  Keeping us on topic is the biggest challenge a moderator has!  While I wish that I could get my snark on to the extent that the girls at Jezebel do, certain literalists, pedants and others whom I actually have nothing against and like in real life prevent that from happening (which is less entertaining for all of us, I think).

But then I thought, "I should look up this person's IP" before I sincerely try and defend myself by engaging in a dialogue with someone who is accusing me of something...and I did that query...and lo, I discovered much. Now, given such context, I see that I could type until my fingers fell off, but you don't give a shit about fairness or hearing me out. 

You've made some of the most petty, immature comments I've moderated this summer (when you weren't insulting me, that is).  You keep reading the blog even though "the only person worth paying attention to" is no longer with us (glutton for torment much, then?). So peace to you, my critical, rude, blood-pressure-raising friend.  I get it, it's personal, you reeeeally dislike me and there's no point in my trying to reason with you or convince you that I'm not as _______ as you think.  I've deleted our entire exchange, because its about as pretty or useful as fecal matter smeared on walls.  You must feel nice though, because I feel like shit, which shall be a running theme in this post.

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A confession: as SM gets bigger, I feel like I'm being forced in to a smaller and smaller box.  I am less allowed to be me, if that makes sense.  There are too many observing us, which raises the stakes, so it's better to avoid risk, lest I suffer for it later.  More troubling than that, I am less allowed to be uneven, flawed, normal.  Expectations are so high...too high.  When I'm not disappointing the majority, I'm offending or troubling them. Every post needs a disclaimer, an explanation, a multitude of clarifications...and that's exhausting not to mention numbing. 

It makes me want to write less. It also defeats the purpose of the whole sepia party; if you want straight news which is presented professionally, honeychile, get thee away from teh blogs.  The whole point is personality, yet that's what I get slammed for, again and again.  It's a constant stream of rejection, of being met with "eeww" when I say hello.  It's demoralizing.  And draining.  Wanna know what's extra awesome?  It always seems to worsen when I'm trying to do the right thing or when the point of a post is helping someone.  No, not depressing at all.  I'm left thinking that if anything, I've harmed, not helped, that the negativity which I've inspired is the last thing a good cause needs.   

One more thing:  if I could have grown a thicker skin, don't you think I would have by now?  I swear I don't enjoy this.  Who would?

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Some days, I love what I do, others...I just want to go home and crawl under a blanket.  That goes for both of my "jobs" and it probably goes for most of the working world.  I recognize that it's not a unique sentiment.  I also get that it's really hard to assume the best about a situation.  A few hours ago, an alarming email was sent out to our entire team and its target was nebulous but it could've been aimed my way?  I started to fret and get depressed, even as I told myself that such stress, while understandable, was pointless, unless I knew the issues raised were ones I am guilty of, specifically.  So I'm having this rational discussion with myself, but it's not really working...and then one of my favorite co-workers arrives, asks me why I'm blue...and then starts laughing because the email was about HIM.  He even proved it. So, I Eeyored for nothing.  It's a valuable lesson which I fail at regularly, this not assuming the worst stuff.  I will console myself with this indisputable fact: I'm not the only one who needs to learn it.  I hope she reads the reply but more than that, I hope she believes me.  Really, I'm not so awful.

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Shit never ends, yo.  And on a thread for Bevin no less!  I'm amazed.

I'm going to go home.  I've had enough shitty attitudes, misunderstandings, trolling and whatever else for a week, let alone a Thursday, which is usually my happiest day at work.

Is it disturbing that I fantasize about moving on to the next stage of my life and having children, which would make me too busy for any of this self-torment?  Right now, I love how blissed out my friends with kids are...they seriously don't give a shit about anything BUT their kids.  I normally  find that scary, worrisome...but now it seems sooo fantabulous, compared to giving something my all and constantly getting shat on for my efforts.  Which is not to say that when I have kids, I won't give it my all or get shat on, I will and I will...but it's one thing to wash your own infant's poo-ish little butt, quite another to get shat on by anonymous jerks who won't be changing MY diaper when I'm 90.

:(

Nana, I love you.

My sister just called, weeping.  Eight years to the day that I lost my Father, the only Grandmother I've ever known has died.  I feel like I am falling in to a bottom-less pit, like I'm racing through the air, flailing, filled with panic about when I'm going to crash...even though I can't see the ground which would stop this helllish descent. I can't breathe.  Why this month, why this day?  Why at all?  I never got to say "Good-bye"...to EITHER of them.  My heart is shattered, again.

My Grandma is gone.  My Nana is dead.  I will never see her again.  I will never get to tell her I'm sorry  for being the worst fucking granddaughter ever.  I keep losing the people I love and I can't take it anymore, I can't.  How much can one person grieve?