I don't know why I stopped blogging.

I haven't kept up with my blog. I've been trying to create myself a story and photo time line. I'm not sure why I feel like it is going to be therapeutic, but I feel like I have confusion and jumbled thoughts in my head that take up space and if I can get them out on paper and read it like a story then maybe it will make more sense and I can leave it on paper and make room for more thoughts, or even healthier thoughts. I feel like there are years that are lost to me and I don't know who I was, who I belonged to or where I came from and that causes me frustration. There are times in my life that I can't tell you where I lived and what school I went to and even though that's not important I feel like it's missing in my head and I hate missing information. Not everyone remembers their preschool or what their teacher's name was in the second grade, but I have so many of those "non remembers" and nobody I can ask that I feel like there are chunks missing that I wasn't even involved in my own life. Most people can ask their parents what town they lived in when they were in first grade or how many schools they attended for elementary or at the very least go through old school report cards, but I don't have that option and it creates an underlying anxiety for me. I've always hated not knowing shit, if I don't have the answer I have to look or research until I find it, but with this I can't really. I only have flashes of houses, or neighbors or schools and I'm trying to piece that together. Why does this matter? It doesn't really, but maybe it does. Early this month I was in a thrift store browsing for baubles to mount on my wall and got kicked in the gut. This thrift store was the flashbacks of all flashbacks, it wasn't one of those nice thrift stores where you can find a cute Kate Spade clutch for $10. It was the kind that had the same sort of shit you would have found in 1985 out by the corner waiting for the trash man. The one item that floored me was a white Carebear sleeping bag. Yeah in 2002 the Carebears have became a fad again, but this wasn't from 2002, it was from about 1984. The sleeping bag was cloth, not the shiny, slippery rayon feeling fabric of more modern sleeping bags. It was old, worn and dirty, but it brought me right back to 1984, which is one of the years that is more difficult for me to remember. I can recall 1982 better than '84, which confuses me even more. This sleeping bag evoked literal emotion from me. I felt like I was kicked in the stomach and felt like I needed to sit on the floor and cry. I don't know why and I don't like that I don't know why. I know 1984 was a scary, bad time in my life, but I want to be able to look back and understand why and to reassure myself that I am, in fact, fine in spite of it. I can't do that though like I can with other memories though. Instead I feel like I'm feeling the emotions that I felt back then and I long to comfort that, but you can't comfort something you don't understand. At the time I wasn't so sure why this stuck with me, but thinking of a conversation I had with a friend made me realize something about myself that makes me uncomfortable. She said, "you're so fragile". NO THE FUCK I'M NOT! I'M MADE OF MOTHERFUCKING GRANITE! NOTHING BOTHERS ME! Well wait a minute, Marie. Hold your goddamn horses. She's right. I am fra-gee-lay. I'm always two steps away from the edge. So close in fact, that looking at a damn sleeping bag in a trashed out store affects me for days. That is what made me realize I'm carrying too much shit in my head. I've always been the person who has to put pen to paper to get it out and I've been doing it on my own, but I've put my brain on hiatus for awhile and now I see if I don't get all the shit that is hiding up there out I might step too close to that edge someday and have a damn breakdown. Now to be fair, I'm not even sure what a real breakdown exists of, or what it would be for me. What I do know is I do not want to be garage-saling some day and see a Strawberry Shortcake lamp that brings me to my knees or smell the smell of an apartment entry way that smells slightly like smoke, cheap paint and cockroach repellent and end up sucking my thumb in the corner. I have created a crusty, outer shell that I've put around my tender inner self to keep it safe. For a long time that shield has been impenetrable and I had just assumed it would always stay that way. Now I realize over the years that armor has been slowly cracking and becoming more vulnerable. I think it's time for me to start taking active participation in slowly removing that armor on my own. Peel it away in a safe, controlled manner, as opposed to suffering from a glancing blow that I'm unprepared for. I'll get back to it, whether on my own time writing down my story, searching for clues that teach me who I am or here, blogging about shit that might be mind-numbing to read, but serves a purpose for me. I don't like the idea of being vulnerable, but if it must happen, I want to be an active participant in my own life.