The Myth Of Perfection

Why don't I blog more often?

I often ask myself that. I enjoy updating my blog, having a bit of a mental and verbal meander, and saying hello to whoever is out there reading this.

The truth is almost certainly one of a perceived issue of quality. If what I write today, or what I write tomorrow, or what I write next month, isn't witty and wonderful and sparklingly original, so the fuck what? I'm not trying to be Dostoevsky here. But nonetheless I feel this pressure to be more than myself, to have something deeply "meaningful" to say, or to be interesting in some kind of abstract, objective way. All of this is bullshit. I'm not a little girl anymore, trying to impress my teachers or my parents, or even an exam board. I'm a grown woman of intelligence and warmth, and I shouldn't need to feel as though I am always "performing" for a shadowy judgemental audience.

The other thing is a lingering sense that I have to exude an air of completeness, certainty, and assuredness about my life. As if I cannot fully and openly admit to the world, without any shame or self-doubt, that my life (like everyone else's life) is a work in progress.

I have doubts about decisions, beliefs, relationships - sometimes the way I feel or decide to react to things changes. There is nothing embarrassing about sharing this with others, with friends and strangers.

If they pretend that their lives do not contain the same uncertainties - the same sense of evolution and lessons learned - they are almost certainly lying.

So enough with the weird self-consciousness, I say. I didn't call this blog "Broken Hallelujah" for no reason. It's time to be out and proud.