Today is Wednesday and blog posting day.

Only one word has come to mind.

Profound.

I am beginning to hate the word.

Where did people get the idea I automatically sit down and attempt to write profound musings?

Today the pressure was inhibiting.

The reality… I tell little stories; I don’t try to be profound at all.

Maybe it’s the act of not wanting to be ruled by a deadline.

This is its own pressure.

Wednesday is here so a story must appear.

I’m not even looking for something profound… I’m just looking.

And odd, I have the story for next week; it’s done and ready to post.

However it’s not the story for today.

And it’s certainly not profound.

My life has become sublime. So today, to stop and write a blog seems pointless and somehow not profound at all.

She asked, “What stifles you”?

That’s a good question. Am I stifled?  My first reaction is nothing stifles me.  But I guess the real deal is that no outside source stifles me.  I’m pretty direct and don’t hold back much.  And who would actually try to stifle me? I don’t think many would try.

These days I’m tending to stifle myself.   I’m not being very successful but I’m trying.  I have paid a pretty hefty price for not curtailing thoughts and comments so now I’m trying to take that extra second before I speak, write or act.  Is it helping? In some areas, yes. I’m not use to holding back so I find myself with missteps, but yes, it’s a better way to be.

Then I sit down to write.

I am blessed the stifle switch seems to automatically turn off and all the words and thoughts appear.

There is a force field protecting my story telling from the restraints I now heap on my real life.

We are told the more exposed the writing the better. Well at least for the first draft.  Then the revisions and edits can fix and hide the episodes no one has the right to read about. There needs to be secrets.

If I can keep writing about everything and not hold back I should be fine.

Then maybe publish under a pen name.  We all know I would never do that.

But back to the real world… stifle what I say and do? Yes, it is probably the best option.  There have been so many times I have gotten myself in trouble.  Maybe it’s time I learned that my happiness might just depend on the reins I should gladly put on myself.

So there it is… being me stifles me.  It seems like a very sad state.

And a little ironic side note… this is not the post I wanted to use this week.  This was my second choice.  Yes, I stifled myself.

People casually use the F-word these days.  Fuck this, fuck that, fucking hell, he’s a fucker…. You fuck!

I find it hard to take when a person you assume never swears uses the word.  It’s a bit of a reality check.  When Mrs. B said it, I laughed.  I never thought of her as a person that would revert to using foul language.  She’s English, has a lovely soft accent, is 68 and regularly attends church.  Who knew she would let out an “Oh fuck!”

I told her it was OK to use that word but the C-word was definitely off limits.  She made a face when I even hinted about what seems to be one of our most naughty words.  I don’t even think she would say “the C-word” let alone the word itself.

Even I have a hard time typing the word.  Well OK, I don’t hesitate in my private correspondence, but here, on a blog, never!  (that’s not true… I will one day… maybe sooner than later.)

But let’s get back to the story.

Prim and proper Mrs. B went on to discuss the attributes of the F-word and the C-word. Fuck can be used in so many ways… nouns, verbs, adjectives… whereas with the C-word you are limited.  You can’t use it as a verb.  Interesting point Mrs. B.

Our language is evolving faster than we can absorb.  Our lives are evolving faster than we can absorb. Change is everywhere. This can be scary at times but in the right light it all seems so magical.

There might also be magic in finding a way to use the C-word as a verb. Think about it? This may open up a whole generation willing make it their own.

Fuck.

The government has been watching us for years. So am I stressed about the new allegations? No, not so much.

I had the power of the system work on my behalf eight years ago so I may be tainted.  It only took the government a mere 24 hours to track down and locate my birth mother.

The back story. I paid the local authorities $50 to have my adoption papers opened. (Let’s be honest, they did check me out before taking my money and approving the request) Then another $250 to have a special social worker do the search and initial contact.  In the end it took less than a day to track her down and give her a phone call.

Not a happy day for my dear old mom.

From her perspective having the government know so much about how, why and where was devastating.  No one is ever ready for a call proclaiming they know what you did 47 years ago and it’s coming back to bite you. It’s worse when you thought it was a secret deep in a confidential document.  Surprise!

So a sucky day for my birth mother.  She actually tried to deny the connection but was told, “We know, we’re the government”.

Awkward.

Being part of that process made me realize there are people all around that know too much.  About me, and probably about you.

My only defense is to tell the world my secrets first so maybe the sting of the reveal won’t cause so much chaos and pain.

Just my opinion… though I’m sure my birth mother begs to differ.

But I wouldn’t know, she refused to speak to me.

The only good thing about a loss is what it might teach you.  I hate that we are meant to look for the lesson when things go bad.  Fuck that.  When things go bad there is nothing good to say.  Bad is bad.

Upon reflection on how crummy you feel it might dawn on you how much crap there is all around us.  There is pain behind so many smiles.  People go through shit all the time.  Sometimes it’s easier to deal with and sometimes the pain will cripple forever.

I watch myself cry each day.  And I’ve done that for the last 97 days. No one else knows.  The world only sees me carry on. I work, I play, I write, I even laugh.  Then when I least expect it there is a flash of what I’ve lost and the tears come.  My grief has become a silent pursuit.  It’s not that I believe no one cares but I believe no one needs to be a witness.  My story has become boring and not worth the counsel or examination people offered three months ago.

I blanch when asked how I am. There is no need to tell the truth.  Lying is the way to cover the grief.  On my worst days I feel anger at having to carry on and pretend all is fine.  Quit asking me questions and forcing me to lie to you.  Please stop. My wave of self-pity can easily turn to thoughts of hate and revenge.

When is the line, “I will never be happy again” not a cry for help but a simple statement?

So what am I learning?  I am not alone.  At least I’m not alone in what I’m going through. Now when I look at people I try to grasp what devastation is behind their smiling face.  I can’t stop taking the extra second to search for a glimmer of truth of what is really going on inside each person I meet.  What pain are you hiding?  Have you had to cry today?  Is your heart so broken you may never be whole?  Is your loss stealing every ounce of joy?  How are you surviving?  And what the hell do you answer when asked “How are you today?”

One day I’ll ask for a show of hands of who is hiding their pain.