Who are you?
When I write I feel you as a benign and understanding listener. I feel an obligation to write each week because I said I would, but I also know that almost no one reads this blog, partly because I don't tell anyone about it. Recently a wise advisor commented that it was as if I had people over and kept the food in the fridge instead of making it available on the counter, or serving it or something. I stopped writing the newsletter and I don't use social media, so this is more like a semi-coherent diary than anything else.
I've always had a fraught relationship with the public. "Pooblic" is the pronunciation given by the brilliant clown teacher, Jean Taylor, to coax humor from the interplay. I want very much to be seen but as soon as I am I feel misunderstood because the shapeshifting distorts the view.
The portrait of me is by my penpal who lives in prison. I sent him a pic of me after coming home from the beach. He liked the hair and drew the pic. Seen.
When I was in grad school for my clinical psychology PhD, a famous teacher had a notable moment when she said "You are no longer a private citizen." We could never be public, she said, because of how patients might interpret the material. Maybe I didn't really get it, but I felt honored and responsible at the time. Later I felt unseen, stifled, much like how I felt obeying the gag order on mothers.
I didn't really intend to write about my conflict with the pooblic. I intended to share with you an update that I sent to my close ones, but I hit the barrier. Am I allowed to share now? I know some of my former patients read this blog. I worry about you. I worry about my daughter. And yet I am still alive and I still want to be seen.
Maybe next week.
March 26, 2021