Living Mad

Starting a blog always felt arduous and honestly terrifying. Who will read it? What will I write? Why would I have a blog? Why would anyone read it? But for whatever reason, it is something that keeps coming back for consideration.

The anxious thoughts postponing this endeavor closely resemble those that led to my strong avoidance in creating any sort of diary in my adolescence. If I ever did write down my feelings or deepest hopes or fears, I either locked it in my toy safe, or promptly tore it into a million tiny ripped up bits so nobody could piece them back together and peer into my soul. Because obviously rants about my older brother being mean to me or worries about making new friends were much sought-after and warranted such effort.

I’ve since matured, and having a spare journal nearby is an absolute necessity. For untangling twisted webs of anxious thoughts, recognizing and regulating my superfluous emotions, angry letters, doodles, poems, lists of things to buy at Target, inner monologues … when the urge to write something down comes, it gets written down. And usually doesn’t get torn to bits and thrown away in fear.

As for turning to the internet? Well, I’m not sure. I guess I just am finally accepting this returning idea and making it reality.

Or maybe maybe it’s a way to reconnect and manifest my childhood imagination. I would often produce entire talk shows in my mind, being the host or the guest, sometimes both. I can recall rearranging things in my room and talking to myself for hours like I was a TV personality (this was early 2000s, so The Rosie O’Donnell Show or The Amanda Show can probably take some credit to my “Madi Show” daydreaming).

My dear imaginary friend at that age happened to be my reflection, specifically on the long rectangular mirror hanging on my closet door, where I would talk and talk and share my day. I thought of her as my twin. She also lived at my grandpa’s house. He had a cool full-length tri-mirror in his closet.

So writing a blog to myself seems to be a very apt evolution, while I sit here thinking of my past self as I read at my own words on my laptop screen at age 27.

Maybe nobody will ever read this.

Or maybe I’ll become some well-known something-or-other one day and my fans will look back at this time capsule of “Madi” before she was anybody. Hello, fans!