I’m back and it’s been bloody ages, I know.
And I wasn’t sure I was going to come back to this blog. I’m here because I need a friend to talk to and I think it’s you. Don’t feel pressured. You don’t have to do anything except read what I’ve channeled.
There’s so much on my mind right now and I don’t know where to begin. But I suppose we should keep it relevant. See. The theme of the blog was to explore the small stories from my days in foster care. The days I thought I’d left so far behind that I thought I could open them up for public examination.
Vulnerability bruises but I’d go back to write another blog post, and another blog post, and another. It was courage, in a way. I’d write to make sure I had at least 12 blog posts scheduled.
I was caught up by the instant gratification of a couple of WordPress or Facebook likes. But it was getting in the way. I’m a journalist. I wrote for a living. So I had just enough energy for another project. It had to be the blog, or a book.
I chose the book.
There was a woman who wrote me a letter. And in it she said “I love you”. A grand gesture that I related to and had done to others myself. So I knew the energy and courage that went behind the words.
So what did I do to help her?
Nothing. I ignored the letter.
Shut up Doctor Evil! I already know.
It terrified me and I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted to say I love her too but I knew it was only because I just wanted to make someone happy. Someone deserves to be with who they want. Yet although she was a great friend I didn’t feel that way. “Why not?” I considered. “Why don’t you love her back? What’s wrong with you?”
I procrastinated a day to gather my thoughts, and then another day, and another day, and another day, and another day. And then it must have been two weeks and I still hadn’t acknowledged the letter to her.
Her friend facebook messaged me and blasted me for my rudeness and about how, basically, she was too good for me and that I needed to get over my past and focus on my present and future.
The friend assumed that I felt all this self pity by my foster care blogs. That wasn’t why I was blogging. It wasn’t about showing off that I had a hard background. I didn’t have a hard background! Not really.
So this was the first example in which it felt like publishing my past was being used against me. And I suppose it was an incentive to cut it off. No more blogs.
But here I am.
A few Sundays ago I got really drunk with a hot friend in Brisbane and we were about to pass out on her couch. And she muttered, “tell me a story.”
It could have been any story. But my mind was blank. Blank. Blank.
A terrible moment for someone who feels his only purpose is as a storyteller. I said what was on my heart.
“Tomorrow I’m driving down to New South Wales,” I said. “A place called Kempsey. I’m going to catch up with my foster mother. I haven’t seen her in eight years. I haven’t lived with her in 15.”
“You’re telling me what you’re doing,” she said. “That’s not a story of what happened.” A polite way maybe of saying ‘chill, dude. Way too heavy.’
It took days to work out why I was troubled by that moment, which felt like a metaphor or life lesson to take hold of.
I’m a collection of stories.
Not a gatherer of future stories.
I have the past. Why do I need to hold off and concentrate on the future for more stories when I already have what I need. When I haven’t shared all that I can give.
I suppose maybe I feel I need to prove myself from the moment I blanked. For a scary drunken moment I thought maybe I didn’t have anything.
But I do.
Hello =) My name is Chris.
I write not for pity. I write because what happens to me seems to make bloody sense once the actions are channeled through my fingers onto this.