This year has been unprecedented in its level of crazy. I’ve had both the worst day of my life and the best sex I’ve ever experienced. And that was just January. I’ve had major surgery, minor surgery, and traveled across the country to a blogging convention where I had a nervous breakdown. That was February. Trust me, this year has been 50 Shades of Bat Shit Crazy.
I have no shame stealing off that popular title. It is partly because of 50 Shades of Gray that I haven’t been able to write. Why bother trying to write something that isn’t shit when some hack can write utter shit and make a gazillion dollars?
Life just isn’t fair.
Okay, that’s not really the reason I haven’t been writing.
I haven’t been writing because I hate my porn name. In case you don’t know this, you get your porn name from combining your middle name with the name of the street you grew up on. I grew up on Blom Street. My middle name is Elizabeth. That makes my porn name, Elizabeth Blom. My husband suggested I could sex it up by shortening it to Betty. Betty Blom.
Betty Blom is a terrible porn name. Betty Blom isn’t getting laid. Two sexy plumbers aren’t stopping by Betty Blom’s house to clean out her drain. No, Betty Blom is the ugly chick who plays with herself while watching the two hot cheerleaders get it on in the school locker room shower.
Why do I care? I have no idea. For no reason at all I’m pissed that I have a crappy porn name.
How can I possibly write with a porn name like Betty Blom?
Alright, the porn name thing isn’t the deepest issue–it’s an issue, but it isn’t the DEEPEST ISSUE.
Here’s the real reason I haven’t been writing: Penelope Trunk. If I cared about your convenience I’d link to her blog, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t bring myself to go read her again either.
Back in December, right before my own little illusionary world went up in flames, Penelope posted a picture of her naked ass with a big fat bruise on it that she claims she got after being pushed into her headboard by her enraged husband. Penelope is a big blogger and I’d been reading her for months. She’s edgy and out there and quite possibly bat shit crazy; that’s what I found endearing about her. But this bruise thing just hit me wrong. Was she really an abused woman crying out for help or was she simply shilling her bruised ass for a free Tempur-Pedic® Bed?
And then the shit hit my fan and I couldn’t figure it out.
Where the hell is the goddamned line??? How far is too far for a blogger to go?
And since I
didn’t don’t have an answer to that very important question I stopped writing.
I simply refused to lie and pretend that I have it all together when I don’t, but I couldn’t quite handle the
criticism truth either. Silence seemed the safer more honorable answer.
Since January my husband and I have been seeing this Jungian therapist. He spends part of our sessions jumping around, thrusting his pelvis at us, and talking about how important the penis is. I know that doesn’t sound very good when I tell it that way, but he’s been helping us a lot. One of the things he said was that our problems refer back to Adam and Eve in the Garden. He said that Jeff and I are trying to heal the Universe through our marriage. That’s a nice thought, although I think we ought to be getting paid–or at least a free Tempur-Pedic® Bed–for healing the fucking Universe, don’t you?
We have another therapist (Yes, we need two because we’re a neurotic handful.). Among other things, this second therapist works with people who are sentenced to anger management treatment by the court (which I wasn’t, by the way). Even though he really pisses me off (but really, who and what doesn’t?), I must admit that he’s the first therapist we’ve ever seen who believes that I have an anger management problem. I guess I’m just really good at being petite and blonde and unless you’ve seen it up close and personal people have a hard time believing that I’m capable of explosive rage.
Trust me. I am.
I came by it honest (Thanks, Dad!), but I only have myself to blame for allowing things to go as far as they did. So, now I’m in therapy twice a week and I’ve stopped hitting and breaking stuff. Isn’t that nice? I’m learning how to breathe and go to my calm place and reframe events and not make assumptions about other people’s intentions, and all sorts of other good things that help me not to torment the ones I love.
And I’ve realized that if I ever want to write honestly again I’m going to have to embrace who and what I am and stop giving a shit what other people think, but in a way that isn’t exploitative. I have no idea how to do that, but I’m writing and posting this today to break the silence. And I’m posting this video because I like it. When I was a little girl I thought that if I just fell in love with the right man and settled down everything would be perfect.