So what on earth do I write in a blog? Who on earth would want to read it besides me? I find me interesting, but I’m certain others do not. There is a tremendous amount of fear that comes with this undertaking, writing a blog. While I was reading other peoples words, stories, or blogs (what an ugly word), I forgot that it took courage to share. I simply enjoy reading what others share with me. I’m a lurker. I don’t post my thoughts and opinions to them, I just read. I love to absorb the world and take it all in.

Why do I find writing this so absolutely terrifying? What if I make a bad impression? What if I use incorrect grammar or spelling? What if I make someone mad or offend them? What if I make a mistake or say something stupid that I only recognize in hindsight? What if I embarrass my family or friends? What if I’m boring and people tell me so? What if people misunderstand my intent? What happens when I’m judged?

There are a plethora of reasons why I should *not* write a blog. And yet, there is a part of me that feels the unbearable need to say something and be acknowledged. There was a time when fame and fortune were goals of mine - I wasn’t afraid. I can remember being around 10 or 11 years old and having a hard time falling asleep. My thoughts plagued me, an early sign of my OCD diagnosis. I would play a game to help my tired brain find enjoyment that would wear me out. Why doesn’t my brain shut the hell up?

I imagined that my small room in Spraitbach transformed into a stage. I precariously stood on my solid German mattress bed, and then closed my eyes and pointed around the room at the crowd, foot tapping. At first, I had my tiny little Samsung, I think it was a Samsung but memories are foggy, boom box clock radio. My dad had bought me it from the PX for Christmas and with attached headphones he never knew his daughter held rock concerts in her bedroom. Later, I’d saved up for my first Sony walkman, with babysitting money, which improved my jam sessions immensely. I would lip-sync to Nik Kershaw’s “Wouldn’t It Be Good” and “Wild Horses” and feel like a rock star surrounded by thousands of fans screaming and chanting for my next song. I remember the first dream I had about being kissed by Martin Gore from Depeche Mode. It made the hair on my arms raise and sent tingles throughout my body when I awoke. I also recognized that this man was so far outside of what my parents would ever approve of that I buried the thought and focused on the music. I was addicted, because music was okay to love. My first music purchase was made by my father at some German music store in Schwaebisch Gmuend (how the heck do you make umlauts in a Rapidweaver blog page?) - WHAM! Make It Big. Andrew Ridgeley was cute and seemed like he’d be worthy of my father’s discerning approval. I knew at this awkward age that George Michael was definitely not playing for my team and so never thought to give him a thought in my fantasies. I suppose looking back now that being a famous rock star meant that I could rise above my station and have anything I desired. It was a childish dream, and as I grew older I understood better that this lifestyle would have to be achieved another way. Why was I in such a hurry to grow up?

I used to write every day when I was younger - from elementary school and throughout college. I even remember winning writing awards, but have no idea what they were for and why I’d achieved them. They are meaningless now. They always seemed like lucky turns of fate, not something I’d actually earned or deserved. I never tried that hard, I just did what I wanted, unaware that there was any type of reward. I’ve forgotten how good it feels to write. I’ve forgotten that it fed my soul and I didn’t care what others thought. I’ve wasted many of my talents, and I feel as though I’ve forgotten how to write with abandon and no cares to what others might think. This is a piece of my childhood I’d like to have back. It may have been reckless abandon or blind courage, but it is a trait I would like to have now. Sadly, it’s not available for purchase and I’ll have to figure out a way to earn it back. I may need to buy one of those pet “Thunder Shirts,” as I want to feel secure and safe while I undertake the challenge to write a blog. ~h