01 June 2009

i needa new support group (to paraphrase huey lewis)



{feedback squeal}

my name is debra. and uhm...i...well, i indulge in writing. well, okey then, i'm an addict. it wasn't always that way.

sometimes i write other people, ya know, friends. it started with letters and cards as a child. i never really did one of those international penpal things thru language programs at school. just ya know, folks that i already knew. well, i mean, i'd moved around alot as a kid, and so i'd write with friends that i'd made from the last move, or the one before that, or ya know, before that. yeah, so then in college, hooo-boy am i dating myself here...so anyway, in college, there was no internet that was widely available, so no eMails, or twitters, or blogs, or myspace, or facebook, or hell, well ya know social networking was still only something that ya did in a corporate sense with meetings, lunches, parties and such. so yeah, no "social networking" for me, cuz i was not a mover and shaker in the business world and that's really where social networking occured at that time. hell, social networking was not even a term yet.

yeah....so in college, i wrote long letters to my friends from highschool (well, they went to highschool; i didn't. i was one of those vo-tech kids that most people sorta sneer at...as in, 'ewww, you went to tech?!?' but oh that's for another time, yeah, good times that...good times) in my spiral bound notebooks where notes for my classes shoulda been priority. sometimes, i would end up writing for so long and at such depth that i wouldn't notice that calculus had been dismissed and the professor was now covering the chalk board with equations using scientific and mathematic symbols i'd no idea even existed let alone understood~~it was allllllll greek to me. yeah, try to slink your way out of a classroom full of fascinated folks who were reverently breathing the same air as the guest scientist from NASA. noooooo thankewverymuch; no, i simply sunk further into my seat and continued my long-ass letter to one of my friends who was at that time an engineer student on full scholarship to carnegie mellon in pitt. she at least had some appreciation and understanding of theta omegas and pi's and the like.

then, several years later, i discovered the netscape. and learned that i could actually write other people and they would get it just like {snap} that! oh! how wonderful! how joyous! how utterly addictive. i not only could write to others, but also receive their letters too! we could correspond so quickly! way way better than writing a note and sending it thru the US Postal system. why, all i needed was an eMAIL address and account and access to the computer lab!

oh yesssssssssssss. oh those were glorious days indeed. a time when i was happily putting my dreaded typing skills to use. a time when i thought that i was at the apex of my writing jones. this, oh yes, this would surely sate my desire to write with my friends.

{wiping brow} but oh no. wait. just wait one minute. no. no. i hadn't even reached the first pinnacle of what was to be. i didn't see the potential. the sheer enormity of what was to be revealed. well, all in good time. yes, all in good time.

{gulp} and then. well, then, yahoo! messenger came into my life and the whole concept of 'chatting' was born. dude, that meant that i could actually speak in real time, with someone hours away from me. i mean, yeah there was the phone, sure sure. but to be able to WRITE with someone in real time, who was not right here, oh how splendiferous! oh the ecstacy was truly dee-vine. *sigh* how very very wonderful.

oh yes, that was the start of my downfall, i think. that was when i realized that writing was something i could do immediately...well, and then! well, there came the laptop! and with that, well with that {shaking my head} how can i possibly explain the intoxication that drooled thru my veins, down my arms, and out my fingertips in the guise of words, oh WORDS! yes, now, i could write at any time, any where! surely there would be nothing better than this!

and then. folks began to complain that they could never reach me on the phone. well, yes, i explained, of course you can't. cuz i'm writing! i left my phone's ringer in the "OFF" position for five years. i let my voice-service pick up any and all messages. i returned those i wanted to, and deleted those i wanted to, and skipped over those that i wanted to skip over. i began to journal online and then that turned in a blogging habit.

{sharp inhalation}

for a habit it truly was. is. was and is. {shedding jacket and opening a few buttons at the collar} whew, confessing all this is making me sweat. k, well in for a penny, in for a pound. which raises another point, my love affair with words, and language, and syntax, and grammar, and oh it just goes on and on and on and...well, you get the picture.

did this vile habit interfere with my ability to live life? yes. i didn't see it at first. i mean, my love would ask, ya know the person in my life that i love, would ask me a question while i was typing and i'd snap at them, cuz they were interfering with my thought-word flow. the whole process would consume me completely and i'd snap and snarl and then i'd hastily apologize. i didn't mean to be that way. i'd try to excuse my behavior. i'd try to save face. i'd swear to them that it would be the last time, and never again would i act in such a way.

yeah. til the next time. and then the time after that. and so on. phew. but {holding aloft one index finger and pointing it to the heavens} i tried to quit. people left me. i lost my job. i couldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, my wife packed the kids and went to her mother's. i'm bankrupt. my toilet doesn't flush and i refuse to fix it cuz why won't my landlord answer my eMail about it?!?!

out of control. so uhm yeah. now i'm to this. i'm reduced to this. writing before you all, testifying, giving witness to my story. this {holding a damaged recycled jumpdrive} is a new start. thank you for being with me as i attempt yet again to get a handle, a grip on this whole thing.


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