"Read My Journal"

I used to have a Livejournal, you know.
I had a Deadjournal too, because I was, you know, EDGY.

Things I’ve understood better in 13+ years:
The relative nature of opinions.
Marketing.
Public interaction.
Creative fiction writing.

Things I have surprisingly overlooked:
Blogging.

Such an ugly word though. I used online journals. But BLOGging sounded so… I don’t know. Blog. A Blog is a thing you attack for 2d4 damage, and if you crit-fail it swallows your weapon. It is the gelatinous cube of online terms.
Vlogging is only somewhat better, but apparently I became one of those much more readily.
Blog, it sounds like the feeling it elicits. BLAAAAHHHHHHHG.

I had always considered “social media” to be narcissism. (Remember when Facebook and Twitter were new, I do.) I didn’t recognize them for what they were, conduits for conversation.
At least I still consider Twitter to be as such, like a mad-scientist merging of chat rooms and message boards. No wonder I spend all my time on it, it’s the only thing that helps me scratch my now-evolved itch for internet interaction.
Interneteraction no forget I said that entirely.
I was the girl behind the monitor, and now I still am. Sometimes there’s a camera, on good days there is not, and I have merely blank text on a big empty box that begs to be filled with my thoughts, my ideas, my everything, my my mine mine mine mine….

Journals used to be the worst for this, don’t you remember?
“Oh my god I had the worst day!” my friend would message me.
“What happened?”
“Read my journal,” they said, and I would not.
Seriously fuck off if you won’t tell me the story yourself. You want my sympathy, you brought it to me, you want me to be informed, but you are not a goddamned news post.
I recognized the narcissism as I engaged with it, writing my own journals for people who never commented nor cared. Oftentimes the posts were odd and entertaining, my way of polishing a writing style, or alleviating boredom. I became a writer because I was bored and words felt natural. Artists probably feel the same way, their boredom begat a talent. I wrote because I needed to escape and be in Hogwarts for an hour or so every day. Only the people I role played with were mostly… me.
Well, that’s just story writing isn’t it.

I kept physical journals too, but those weren’t public. I think I still have them, I was manic about them really. Lot of damaged-teenager-stuff in there, wondering where I fit, wondering whether I meant anything, wondering what my internet girlfriend smelled like or why she didn’t love me anymore.
Maybe it all was narcissism, but too much of that is still… true. I think I hate the parts of me that are still young.

But I hope, deeply, that I never invited a conversation and told someone to CHECK MY JOURNAL about it.

Facebook was like the epitome of that, to me. Nowadays it’s still true. It’s quite nice for a public presence or maybe making a big announcement, but not for telling a story to close friends.
If a good friend of mine found out something in my life from Facebook, I have failed at being a friend. Mind you, my family members follow my Facebook pages to see where I am in the world and what I’m doing… but the distance is mutual. I missed an entire gestation period of my new cousin, she just appeared in swaddling clothes at a holiday and I had to marvel at the fact that time flies, and I know nothing at all.

My focus, perhaps, isn’t keeping in touch. My friends often weary at that fact, but it also means I don’t talk publicly the way I could, or the way I admire in others. Deeply within me, I worry about the narcissism.
I was never a vlogger because I had nothing to say.
If I did, it really didn’t fucking matter in the scheme of things.
I was a better creator, perhaps. I could express the same things in an artistic form that was distant from myself. It was never about me. It was about the stage, the story, the impact, the audience. Never me.
I guess people LIKE me… the me there is, the messy one who still lets nobody in and needs to do her goddamn laundry.
(Laundry might well be my arch-nemesis)
It still doesn’t make any sense to me.

And expressing this is difficult because, fuck all, my work matters, not the person who makes it. That person is weird and flawed and drunk like a lot and exists to entertain and smile and be the best version of herself.
It’s not to say that flaws aren’t the best part of a person. I like chipped, worn things better than new things with no story.
But I never assumed my stories were ones I was comfortable to tell. Probably because… well…
I couldn’t message you and tell you about it personally.
That’s how my stories are best told. Circumstantially, perhaps… personally, of course… but I wish a hand was in mine as my eyes fill with tears and I tell you about broken lunch boxes and ripped up posters and long days by a swimming pool and my hair turning green from chlorine.
A “Like” button is not a clasped hand as someone tells you something sensitive.

I don’t use Facebook and I don’t take pictures. What is there to see? I am an outline, a sketch of a person whose shading comes from the words I write. And this is hard for me, because I’m writing to someone personal on the other end.
Whoever you are.
I’m never NOT me… but I’m theatrical about it. The world can see you better in stage makeup. I dress up when I’m ready. And I’m terrible at lying. You can be genuinely yourself, but not ALL of what you are.
Hi.
Do you want to hear about my day?
Here’s my journal.