So I don't consider myself a blogger or a social media person. Despite what my friends might say, I'm fairly introverted for all my wisecracking and loud-mouthed ways. I watch Amelie and know the beauty of an overactive imagination.
If I was a good blogger, I would have dumped google analytics or site meter code into this blog, so I could see that 2 people read it today. The reason I don't track traffic on this blog is because it's a labor of love (it's a vanity blog. Tracking traffic seems silly and prideful.) I'm a little OCD, compounded by studying performance metrics in college. I've messed around on the Internets enough to know that tracking traffic rapidly becomes a compulsive twitch for me.
Luckily, ranting by writing down your frustration is a healthy form of cognitive therapy. It can be more effective than anti-depressants on the long term, and drugs don't really help me the way they're supposed to.
Yep. That's right. I deal with depression, and with millions of others, I pay a therapist (more like a counselor) to help me work things out. Almost every week, she reads me - chapter and verse - the definition of mental illness, to show me I'm just neurotic and not sick. My therapist thinks I suffer from being a highly creative person without a creative outlet, not chronic depression, and is thrilled I'm writing and farting around on the Internets.
She also seems to think I'm humorous. What she doesn't know is that's what kept me motivated to stay in therapy - if I made her laugh. Poking fun at myself helped me get through it. Every time I made her laugh - and not just snicker or just politely chuckle - but really make her gut-bust, can't keep it in, if she was drinking coffee she would snarf it - laugh, I would give myself a gold star. My work would be done. I'm not nearly as talented, but I've seen enough E True Hollywood stories to know that most comedians are funny because that's how they got through the bad shit in their lives.
Growing up, I dealt with more than my share of kaka, but the real soul-crusher was being told I could "do that as a hobby." I could play music, paint, act in a play, write, dance - as a hobby, not a profession. The Responsible Adults in my life were convinced that if they squelched every creative inclination in me, I'd grow up to be a successful lawyer, engineer, doctor or professor of Something Important. (and maybe lucrative, and probably boring.) So much for that.
The truth is, being active in the creative arts helps kids achieve, because besides helping things like memory and recall, it's a way for them to express their authenticity. They have a chance to express that intangible beauty that is imagination. It helps them grow fearless and strong. I mean, solving math proofs or diagramming a sentence are important skills, but does it help a curious young person express their inner self? Probably not.
So anyway, that's why I'm a bad blogger. I have no idea who stopped on by the blagh here, but I'm glad they did. Luckily the Internets is vast, so I have space to publicly express the random observations in my head. It makes my therapist happy, and it makes me feel better. And sometimes, if I press my ear to my laptop, very faintly -- very softly, I can hear you laughing. Hopefully with me. But if you're laughing at me, I'll take that, too. Laughter is the best therapy in the Universe.
p.s. - if you have kids, hug them for me. And when they give you that finger-paint picture, know that it's going to help them be more successful than you can ever imagine.
p.p.s. - I realize my posts when from funny to maudlin this week, so I promise to drink a lot this weekend and bring back the funny. Or at least watch a lot of other people drink and point and laugh at them. Or something.