Epilogue

I’ve been feeling very haunted.

Imagine about 6 months worth of suppressed melancholy coagulating, bubbling, and fighting to make its way to the surface.

I’ve been feeling (and fighting not to) a wide range of emotions, seemingly all at once, lately.

My moods have been all over the place. It was beginning to become evident on this… my public forum. I was spilling open sloppily.

See, it was suggested to me, on a couple of occasions, that I should give therapy a try. That it’s quite wonderful and cathartic. One person started relaying all these mantras and phrases told to her, by her therapist. My pride still won’t let me go that route just yet. I’m not ready to be one of those people who repeats mantras and catch phrases. I’m sorry, I can’t.

When I started this blog, I stated that journaling was like taking a big dump. And it was…. Until I became constipated, grunting to no avail. Last night, I was flipping through this month's issue of Vogue, when an article caught my eye in the Talking Fashion section entitled; Dear Diary. The author sang the praises of journaling in the privacy of one's diary, and listed the celebrities who kept private journals. The author of the article said that journaling had a "cognitive and therapeutic value" to its undertaking. I agree.

"Make it a journal written not to be published but as a vehicle of memory and reflection, something quite different from so many of today's babbling blogs. (Because after all is said and written, luxury is privacy, and public blogs, although occasionally diverting, seem disingenuous. Suspiciously commercial. Franchise-builders for their authors). "

For obvious reasons, I completely disagree. I think it's all relative. Some people just choose (for their own personal reasons) to keep a public journal of their struggles, their exploits, of people/places/things that make them happy. The person who penned this article also admitted to not keeping a diary...

"... Although I should, I guess. If only to ensure against forgetting some of the marvelous bons mots I overhear at parties. Like last night, when woman described a dubious zillionaire advancing in the ranks of New York society."

The motivation, for his/her (wasn't sure if the journalist was a man or a woman) potentially keeping a diary is no less dubious than those people who choose to journal using blogging as a vehicle to express themselves. That being said.. Onward to the topic of this post...

Admittedly, when situations become overwhelming, I become self-contained, withdrawn, and more mercurial than usual. I tend to deadpan a lot, but generally am a relatively happy person, who loves to indulge in raucous laughter and raunchy jokes and anecdotes.

Lately, I’ve been greedily relying on intermittent moments of contentment. Unfortunately those moments haven’t been enough to sustain me.

There are demons and screaming banshees I haven’t dealt with head-on. Instead, I've let them fester and thrive... allowing them to materialize into menacing and snarling, multi-headed monsters. Now here I am, batting them off with sticks and stones… weapons that just aren’t forceful enough;

My livelihood…

Sordid relations…

Paranoia…

Lackluster dating prospects…

Anti-social behavior…

More importantly, my lingering sadness over the loss of a little and loved one.

Basta! As the Italians say. It is time for me to fight these damn demons and exorcise them accordingly, as opposed to just swatting at them and then running for cover. I need to begin that process now, and I will do it in my own way, on my own terms… I will attempt to anyway. Armed with my bleeding pen and this book which I will fill with my own evocative language. I will spew them at the demons, so as to vanquish them!