What Was Mine.

And if the whole world’s singing your songs,
And all of your paintings have been hung,
Just remember what was yours is everyone’s from now on.
And that’s not wrong or right,
But you can struggle with it all you like.
You'll only get uptight.

-Wilco, "What Light"

I'm working to remember it. The experiences I share as a writer are mine, and I want to guard them jealously; however, they're here, and they're not mine anymore once I put them up. I had a good relationship with poetry, with letting it go once I'd written it and shared it. This forum is different, though...the stuff I'm writing is so clearly personal, so raw and real and unprocessed and unfiltered and immediate that sometimes getting feedback freaks me out a bit.

I tried to remember what I started this whole adventure in bloggery for: I had some stuff going on, and I was feeling a need to tell my story. That was it in the beginning. All I had was a title and a story to tell, and so I just kind of started telling it, in medias res, without explanation. I had no aspirations at the beginning of making friends or publishing things or even really helping folks out. It didn't take long, though, before I did find friends here, and support, and growth, and I started finding myself in a role of helping people. It freaked me out at first, and I kept posting all of these disclaimers: I don't know anything! I'm just writing stuff! Don't come here for answers!

And now I'm more comfortable with being a source of information or help for folks...I'm not an expert and I don't really know anything, but I do know that I've been helped tremendously by the wisdom of other people who have dealt with addiction in their lives. If reading how I've dealt with my crazy helps you, then I'm happy with that...I'm happy I've helped, and I'm happy in myself that I'm in a place to be able to help.

There are still moments, though, when I have to stop and ask myself what I'm doing here and what are my goals and how I'm presenting myself and why it's sometimes scary...and since it's sometimes scary, why do I keep doing it?

And I guess that's because there is some truth here, my truth. It's mine, and it's more than mine, too.

Paris?

So finally, MPJ showed me today that the San Diego Reader column is out.

I really want to be excited about it, but reading the post makes me so sad. I'm excited because it's the only time I got something published without submitting it...it's the only time I got "discovered." That's a good feeling. But reading it...fuck!

It was his last relapse. It was 148 days ago. We did the math last night. That's a long time. It's not long enough. For a long time, I didn't believe him about the last time he used being that time, but now I do. Or now I don't care. Or now I care too much. Or I realize that I care so much I have to find ways not to care.

Even my writing is different back then. I was so tense. I can feel it in the way I'm handling words, like they might explode or shatter.