Last night, I cried over spilled milk. Let that sink in for just a moment, please..
And before you ask, no, milk is not a euphemism for some other trivial happening in life that I let get me down. Not at all. I literally cried over spilled milk and there really is no need to explain the circumstances surrounding the incident. All that need be known is this: Milk spilled. I cried. I raged. I rationalized. I didn’t apologize. The end.
Why am I telling you this? Why, after all these months of silence, am I about to devote a whole blog post to the topic of my emotional outburst after one small glass of milk fell over onto the carpet? Why, on earth, would anyone advertise their breach of such an important life lesson as “don’t cry over spilt milk”?
I am telling you this because I did. I am writing about this incident because it is the truth. And not only did I cry, I burned red over that glass of spilled milk. Then as the anger faded to guilt I wasn’t even woman enough to admit my fault. Instead I blamed my current guilty predicament not on my own actions, but on Roger’s response to my actions. That’s right, I tried like hell to rationalize my guilt by convincing myself, and an audience, that I didn’t feel bad over acting childish, I only felt bad because someone made me feel bad. Even as this excuse spewed forth from my mouth I knew how ridiculous it sounded. Attempting to explain it now seems impossible, not to mention confusing.
But still the question may remain in your mind, why am I coming back to blogging with a post about my anger and the trivial topic of spilled milk. The only answer I can venture to give is ultimately this: I needed some honesty here. Some brutal honesty. Some bad lighting. Something true, and real, and gritty. Something unclean. Something not polished. Something far from perfect. I needed to show you some anger over a little spilled milk.
This is the thing I need you to know most. I’m not perfect. And this blog, this horribly polished, walking perfection of a blog has, at times, haunted me. The person I portrayed myself as. The things I said. The way I wrote, often claiming to have found some shard of goodness in the most hurtful of situations. Shouting loudly at the end of these types of posts that I had learned a lesson and released all associated pain. I often go over these words, these posts, in my head trying to find myself in my words and sometimes it seems hard. It’s harder years later, reading these posts and not remembering the lessons learned but absolutely remembering the pain, the anger, and the anguish.
I think that’s why I stopped writing altogether. It seemed like it was the only way I knew how to write. Ever an optimist in my writing and often a pessimist in my life it was hard for me to claim the two as authentic versions of myself. And it made me feel fake. Unreal. Hypocritical even. I look as if I’m trying too hard to be something other than what I truly am. And even though I never lied. It still felt like I did because I had made myself a master of omission. I absented from the conversation all the times in my life I have gotten angry and acted the fool over something as inconsequential as a glass of spilled milk.
But I want to write. For me, writing is like breathing. I’ve been an avid journal keeper my whole entire life so the thought of blogging came naturally for me. I miss it. I miss the release of emotions that can happen after writing one of those soul searching pieces. I miss the love that fills the comment section of my blog. Most of all, and more than missing blogging, I need it. I need words in my life. And this need has brought me back to this; a post about my agitation over a glass of spilled milk, an apology for keeping these types of truths from you, and the hope that you’ll once again join me in this blogging journey. On which, hopefully, one day, I can find the equilibrium between the girl who writes this blog and the woman who walks in her shoes.