I suppose that within a couple of days, I’ll go through every one of my journal entries–again!–and make them publicly accessible. I experienced a little jolt when the ex of a guy that I recently went out with got bent out of shape over something I wrote. Jeesh. It’s my life! In a typically hysterical response I made every entry “friends only,” as if I could contain my publicly posted thoughts within our little community. This took a few hours.
I’ve struggled over maintaining an essence of a personal life, believe it or not, and complete disclosure. I’ve never been good at keeping things secret anyway, and while there are issues and experiences that I might not discuss without a little prodding, I’ve found it liberating to write openly about my dating life. There are even men on my friends’ list whom I’ve dated, and I figure it’s better all around if everybody knows where I’m at, even if where I’m at is in several states at once. Love me, love my schizophrenic befuddlement.
Bob, my lover of 11 years, writes autobiographical fiction, really experimental pornography. While we were together he pushed me to integrate my obsessions into my artistic expression. I’m not comfortable being though of as a writer, but journaling has provided a satisfying outlet for something that feels authentic. Like it or not. I mean, here I am with my insecurities and indiscretions, fumbling around trying to make sense of it all. Love is somewhere at the end of this trip, but it’s also love that keeps me moving along.
Look in your heart and let love keep us together. What ever.