I tried not to blog, I really did

I know the old adage about not mailing a letter when you're upset, waiting 24 hours and seeing if you still feel the same way, and then it's okay. Of course, no one writes letters anymore, and I am of the wildly unhealthy attitude of "if you feel it, say it." This doesn't apply to every aspect of  my life, but more and more, because I don't want to feel marginalized anymore, I just say the verbal diarrhea things you're not really supposed to say or ask of people, and then I get frustrated when I don't get the response I want, or any response for that matter.

I have a few peccadilloes, to be sure. I don't like bugs, dirt, the outdoors, sharks, cows, white plates, if I can help it, or ever, EVER walking barefoot outside. But, more intimately, I cannot abide being ignored or not validated. I don't know if this is a writer thing or a I need serious therapy thing, but I can remember in high school, almost physically accosting a boy who ended up being a long-term boyfriend, because he was trying to ignore me. There, shit, I've exposed my Achilles heel. Do not ignore me; it will inflame emotions that don't even make sense to me.

Maybe it's a youngest child thing? I was/am the "baby," and always had full attention, plus I had/have a flair for the dramatic, so I never wanted for attention. Maybe I just don't understand not getting it. This doesn't translate all that well to adulthood. I'm not some whiny diva, stamping her foot or demanding a spotlight. I just don't seem to understand when my personal feelings are not being validated or explained.

Therapy, you say? Don't mind if I do. I think this is an issue beyond my purvey. I think getting the bloody hell out of my own crazy, loud mind is a good place to start. It's a zoo up there. There are songs going off at all intervals, clips of old movies, excerpts of conversations from my past, etc...I don't know how I ever sleep. And to be honest, when I do, that mania bleeds into my dreams, and I have vivid, brilliant dreams that make absolutely no sense, but would make wonderful short stories or movies, if I could organize them.

My grandfather told me frequently, that his head hurt, just from all the thoughts swirling through, and then and now, I knew exactly what he was talking about. He had insomnia and he wrote in a walkabout manner, which I sometimes do, and I know most definitely from where I get this. It doesn't help that much, to know, except that I'm humbled to take after him, but humble doesn't help me sleep at night. And neither do unanswered questions. I hate unanswered questions.