The Silent Treatment

I wake up in the morning and, after figuring out what day it is, think, “Hey, I get to write today. I wonder what I’ll say.” It’s a nice thought.

For more than a year, I was in the habit of writing one-thousand words each and every day, publishing them to a website called Collecting Thoughts Press. I printed out those 400+ posts and have them in an accordion file. I try to read one a day and decide its fate. Will this post continue to exist? If so, it goes into a different file for future use. If not, it gets ripped to shreds; used as scrap paper in my studio, where it soon gets covered with the excess paint I’d rather not send down the drain; or gets burned. I hate some of my old posts so much, I need to literally burn them, and it’s a wonderfully cathartic experience. The posts that I hate tend to be either boring (that goal of 1,000 words was not always a good thing) or safe. I used to be so afraid of offending anyone, that I was seldom able to find my own voice, and in many instances, filled my posts with quotes and excerpts. It was a way of hedging my bets. Could anyone get upset with me if they weren’t even my words?

I’m not afraid anymore, so I use my voice and take ownership of my words. That, apparently, doesn’t sit well with some people, but I can’t say for sure, because few of them are willing to talk to me. I tend towards hope and can’t help but think that a simple misunderstanding might be at the heart of matter, but how does one clear up a misunderstanding if no one is willing to talk about it? It makes me sad, because all of the ruined relationships in my life (and there are piles) got ruined because either I or someone else (or both of us) were unable to take a chance on honesty. It can be scary. I know. I spent my life avoiding confrontation and trying to be the Cheryl everyone else was looking for. Turns out that it just led to me being a person no one really wanted, not even my self.