Yip…pregnant. The pause, that is.
As in, “Wow, Mikalee, that was one big-ass, gaping, ginormous whopper of a pregnant pause!”
My response: I know, right?
First off, my sincere apologies. I didn’t intend for it to work out that way, even though in retrospect, my asking for some “time” to “process through” all that had happened to me did seem rather strategic in light of the giant, pregnant-woman-sized hole in my posting schedule.
Second: Damn, this post-a-month challenge is a doozy! Sheesh…
Seriously, I’m going to confess that even I didn’t understand the reason for my lack of posting. It was like I was thrown from the horse and didn’t know how to mount it again (and we all know what happened when I re-mounted the dating horse, post-divorce — does Scrabble Whore ring a bell?). It felt as though Boyfriend Brett cut another “1/4-inch” from my hair (remember that length: Brett as dog years: humans). And they were definitely the ends with all the creative jizz. Yet again.
But no, none of the above. And after some serious introspection, I have a diagnosis for the pregnant pause.
And its name is Blog-holm Syndrome.
Please allow me to explain: I have been bombarded of late (by forces external to this blog, of course) by people condemning my actions. It’s gone something like this: You think you have a right? To write? About your life? But you’re only telling one side of the story! And you’re so clearly bitter!
OK. Perhaps “bombarded” is a bit harsh, and it’s really only been a few people (or one person) — people (or a person) asking me to stop writing. People (person) with their (his) own agenda. And his lawyer, too.
So I’ve become rather gun-shy about this writing endeavor, and I think with all the messages I’ve been receiving, I’m beginning to buy into the argument. There, my friends, is the root of my “Blog-holm Syndrome” diagnosis.
Which is just like Stockholm Syndrome. Only bloggier.
Here’s the down-and-dirty Wikipedia definition of the original syndrome, prior to my über-cool, technology-era-adaptation:
“Stockholm syndrome is a term used to describe a paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein hostages express empathy and have positive feelings towards their captors.”
So my bloggy analysis: I am experiencing a paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein I hate my blog. Because I’ve been told to hate my blog. By people (person) who hate(s) my blog.
And to add further context, according to the FBI, captives often fall victim to the syndrome when there is “…a long duration before resolution, continued contact between the perpetrator and hostage, and a high level of emotion.”
- This whole process started in the courts last year — but in reality, the entire bat-shit crazy ordeal has been ongoing for almost four years.
- “Resolution” has included two mediation sessions, one hearing with a judge, an order for another mediation session, meetings with the ex, extensive email communication…and a partridge in a pear tree.
- A high level of emotion? Yeah, you could say that.
So: Blog-holm Syndrome. Sounds just about right.
Funny thing is, it’s been a gradual transformation. For the past eight months, I’ve loved my blog more than Ponch loved Jon. More than I fuckin’ love the fuckin’ word “fuck.” More than Ke$ha loves glitter.
(And by the way, I should totally add a random symbol to my name. Genius marketing move, I think. How about “[email protected]” Or “M!kalee.” “Mika)ee”? Doesn’t have the same finesse, does it…Damn that genius Ke$ha and her stupid genius dollar sign…)
Anyhow, recently, the act of fostering my blog just inspires a feeling of ick. An aching, pukey feeling that reminds me of those first days, post-betrayal: I feel ugly, insecure, like I don’t have a right. To write. About my rights.
And the crazy signs reflecting my insecurities are everywhere. Take this one, for example. There I am, the day after the hearing, driving into a fast-food drive thru for – you guessed it – a Diet Coke, when I see this:
First: How does a dead squirrel even end up in this position? I can’t wrap my mind around it. Sure, I can imagine it in a cartoon, if our protagonist were a nut-craving version of Pepé Le Pew — oui? Oui…
The scene: Our lovelorn squirrel, pretending to die of a broken heart because his very chic, very European amoré has unceremoniously jilted him, throws his hand to his forehead, stumbles to the left, then the right, sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth and dies in a dramatic flourish, gasping. Prone. But on his back. With tail straight and little tiny hands curled.
Cartoon? Sure. But real life? Nah…
Clearly, the moment had to be documented for posterity.
Second: Roadkill? Come on, now…I’m the symbol girl — you know, the girl whose marriage ended with a brick. Then the big guy in the sky, or the fat guy craving belly-rubs, or Mommy Earth, or George Burns, or whoever is holy, throws this into my path?
Roadkill. The word evokes so many meanings, and yet the image is even meaningful-er.
So here I am. Roadkill suffering from Blog-holm Syndrome. I’m in such good shape.
OK then, there’s the official diagnosis. And as any good self-diagnosing, neurotic hypochondriac self-therapist worth his/her armchair might do, I turned to the Internet to research my cure. After all, if my affliction is so close to Stockholm syndrome, perhaps the cure also applies.
According to one super-official looking website, the most effective cure for Stockholm Syndrome is “…counseling by psychiatrists and the love and support of family members. With loving support, expert guidance and patience, Stockholm Syndrome can be rooted out…in time.”
So please, bloggy buddies, members of my extended post-divorce family, I’m seeking your loving support, expert guidance and patient reflection about any of the following:
- What do I do now?
- How do I stop believing certain people (person) and their (his) inaccurate analysis?
- How do I overcome this pervasive feeling of ick?
- Roadkill? Really? (And could Pepé Le Squirrel have been any more dramatic?)
- Who thinks I should start going by [email protected]?
I’m all ears. And lucky for me, without a bun in the oven…