You can't handle the truth

I love writing this little blog. I do. It’s a safe forum that allows me to speak my truth. I can share my hopes, dreams and successes; failures, frustrations and fuckups; and random, silly anecdotes about my first-world life.

I am not ashamed of anything I’ve said or done in my lifetime, so there’s no ego involved when I write. I have made peace with all my decisions, and I have no regrets. I’ve been schooled on some amazing lessons I couldn’t have learned without wading through a lot of shit. I hope that sharing some of those lessons will keep others from making the same mistakes.

Thanks to 12-step recovery, I’ve also learned that other people’s shit does not stick to me. If people I love make bad choices, that’s on them. I’m not going to waste time agonizing over those choices or being humiliated on their behalf.

But, because this blog is public and attached to my professional website, I hesitate to go too far off the chain with intimate details. I’m reticent to post anything too raw or controversial because I don’t want to alienate my clients, family or friends.

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My 10 or so loyal readers have probably noticed by now that I have never written about my political leanings in this space. And I never will. You won’t find out how I feel about abortion, the environment, gay marriage or gun control unless you ask me personally … and in person. I am comfortable in saying my beliefs most closely align with the Libertarian party. But even at that, I reserve the right to vote however the hell I want to.

As for my personal life, I’m not nearly as guarded, although there has historically been a limit to how much I will share. Case in point: I will never, ever write in graphic detail about my sex life. For one thing, I don’t currently have one. For another, it’s not my style anymore to kiss and tell. (I’m sure all my past playmates are sighing with relief.)

A good friend of mine wrote a dating blog once upon a time, where she felt free to talk about penis size and bedroom fantasy disasters. I certainly have my own spicy stories, which I freely share with mah gurls when we get together. I’m no prude, and I’m an open book with my friends.

But my fear with writing about those lurid stories is they would eclipse anything else I want to say here. In other words, I don’t want to be perceived as just a middle-aged woman who writes dick jokes.

Sometimes, though, I yearn to use my blog as a true journal to help me process some of the craziness I’ve gone through in the past few years. I’ve alluded to problems with my ex-husband’s drug addiction and the non-linear, sometimes precarious path of my teen-age son.

Even though I would be sharing only my perspective and MY truth on these topics, others might be embarrassed or hurt as a result of what I say. My ex is also my son’s father. I adore his mom, my former mother-in-law. And there are also brothers and cousins and others surrounding the family who I still care about a great deal.

But there are some indisputable facts nobody can ignore: My ex committed a crime shortly after we split (unrelated to me, my son or the split) for which he is now serving time in prison. He is an alcoholic and drug addict of the extreme order (think Pookie from “New Jack City). By nature, drug addicts are not right in the head. He is up for parole this fall. Which means he could potentially be back in my life — and not in a good way — way too soon.

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Here is my truth: I have spent the past two years rebuilding from the wreckage of that psychotically dysfunctional relationship. I am happy and oh-so drama-free. I like my life. Very much. I do not wish to invite or allow any chaos into the peaceful bubble I have created for myself.

I am strong enough now that my ex can no longer intimidate or manipulate me (his weapons of choice), but just knowing he could soon be making noise again in my quiet life pisses me off.

I have learned through my own experience with alcoholism that it is a sickness of the mind. And like any disease, people who suffer from it deserve compassion. But the idea of offering any kind of consideration to someone who ran roughshod all over my entire family makes my teeth hurt.

I suppose my ol’ HP (higher power) knows what he’s doing by giving me advance notice of this potential emotional upheaval. I’ve got months to get my head and my heart to a place of acceptance.

Right now, though, I’m prepping for a battle that may never come. My knee-jerk reaction was to buy a gun (and learn how to shoot it) before October. Yes, I realize that’s way too extreme, but that’s how protective I am of my serenity these days. (I still have a court order in place that protects my house, thank God.)

Kind of like with autism, I believe there is a spectrum of drama and ugliness people experience, and my needle seems to fall on an extreme. Correction: fell. Today, I don’t have to let others ramp up my drama meter.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this except to say that my truth isn’t always pretty, but it’s there whether I write about it or not. In this case, I chose to write about it.

Here's another one of my truths: Airing dirty laundry keeps it from stinking.

Thanks for reading.

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