I spent the weekend with a dear friend who I knew before I went to Israel. She keeps a kosher Jewish home and it is always a special treat for me to get to spend Friday night at her place because it restores my soul in ways that are Kabalistic and would take me a very long time to explain. I can say that the next six days go well for me. I showed up one hour before candlelighting, put my bags in the house, and then it was Shabbat. For Friday night dinner, she served me a home-cooked meal in four courses. First some salads, then salmon, then chicken and sweet potatoes, and then cakes and cookies. It was awesome. Then we stayed up until 1 am talking about men and why they are how they are. The whole time, I was thinking about my blog and wanting to share my writings with her. However, in order for me to tell her about the posts, I had to first explain about the suicide. I couldn’t just let her read it online without any warning. That’s like breaking up with somebody by text message: cowardly and cruel. But I didn’t think it was the right moment. We had a lot of activities planned for the next morning and I thought she might be angry with me for slashing my veins open. Other people have burst into tears when I confessed, and others have surprised me by confessing their own suicide attempts to me. But *Shalva (fake name) is different and I suspected she might get angry. I didn’t want to spend the next day in public, pretending that everything was okay and in denial (wearing a fake smile like the narcissists do). So I waited until the end of Shabbat and told her that I had something serious that I needed to talk to her about.
I explained it as more having to do with leaving the Holy Land than having to do with the discard – because that is where I am at right now in my recovery. I am blaming David less and blaming yerida more, but that is for another post. Shalva’s reaction was so calm that I wasn’t quite sure she had understood me. I held back from showing her the graphic wound photo because I didn’t think she could handle it. Instead, I just showed her my survivor’s scar. Still, I’m not sure she got it. I think it may take a few days to sink in – which is probably why she asked me to go back next Friday night and spend next Shabbat with her again. I did explain to her that I fainted -or fell asleep -or died- after dark on a Saturday night; and that when I awoke, it was still dark outside. At the time, I thought maybe 4 hours had passed, but it was Monday, two days later. I had been “away” for two days. The doctor who stitched me up didn’t believe it. She insisted I was confused, and yet, she could not explain why my wound was not fresh. She kept asking me and I kept telling her, but she would not accept my timeline. So Shalva is the fifth person that I have confided in, besides all of you, and everyone in the psych ward. That’s a lot of people, actually, but not my brother or sister or mother or father. It’s complicated.
The first result of confessing to my friend is that she asked me never to blog about her. I wanted to share my writings and immediately, I had restrictions. The second result was that some life drama happened to me later that day and now I cannot blog about it because Shalva may be reading this blog right now. It is one thing to share my personal life semi-anonymously with strangers but quite another to show my diary to a friend who can tell me to my face that she disapproves of me. I did not realize that I would feel intimated and somewhat ashamed by my behaviors if I had to show them to people who know me. Therefore, I self-restricted my therapy by not writing about what I wanted to write about. To reiterate, I confessed to a friend who loves me and I ended up with restrictions on my blog: no posting about her or anything that happens to me while I am with her, and no posting about things that I don’t want to tell her because I am feeling ashamed about being weak or somewhat sick (mentally ill). Restrictions. Imagine how much worse it would be if I followed WordPress’ advice and connected my blog to social media sites like Facebook and LinkedIn! I would feel like Monica Lewinsky. She made a bad decision and the whole world was okay with verbally assaulting her in public. I prefer to publish my memoirs at the end of the story, when I have become a success at something or won a Tony for writing the musical version of my lifestory. I wouldn’t be singing it, that’s for sure. I think PeeWee Herman should play me. He’s perfect. But fantasy aside, I don’t want to be famous while I’m still a loser flounderer. I want to get somewhere first.
My advice: Don’t confess. It will mess up your blogging, and blogging is therapy.
“Confession is Supposed to Help Me????” is copyright © 2015 by 18mitzvot. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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