Wednesday, April 18, 2012


My husband told me the other day that I sometimes write like a "broken woman."

If you've ever spent any time reading my other blog, or spent any time with me in person, and having read this blog, you will probably see that there is a bit of duality.  Oh, hell.  It's probably more of a septality.... or maybe even an octality.... and all of it is me.  In one way or another, all day long.  There are people who only know one side of me.  There are a few of those people who have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and have seen glimpses of another side, but only a flash, before I reel it back in.  And then there are those who've seen it all.  All my dirtiness, all my hypocrisy, all of it.

I do lots of dumb shit.  I say lots of dumb shit.  I laugh at the wrong things.  I don't laugh at things that were meant to be funny.   I use self-deprecation to make people laugh because it's foolproof and takes the least effort. 

I have unreachable expectations of myself.  And very, very few expectations of others.

I cling to routines and familiarity like a security blanket.   I spit and fight and beg when I have to let them go.  And then, like flipping a light switch, I forget they ever existed.

I have had some fucked up shit happen to me.  I have been the fucked up shit that happened to someone else.

I have had some amazing things happen to me.   Though I am not quite sure I have ever been anyone else's amazing thing.

I asked him if by "broken woman" he meant that I made myself sound like a victim.  Because aside from "enliven" and "handsome" and "menstruation" and "guffaw," the word "victim" is right up there as one of my least favorite words.

He said no.

And drawing on the knowledge that men usually say exactly what they mean, I can then assume that he probably meant that I write on this blog with a voice that gives the impression that I am mentally or psychologically broken. 

Aren't we all in some way?

But I think his point goes a bit deeper than that.  I think the "brokenness" for him comes from the fact that as a person, in person, at home, with him and my boys, for the most part, my personality is a bit more like the me who writes on Pleasantly Demented.  I laugh a lot.  Joke around a lot.  I am loud and obnoxious.  I have a filthy mouth and a filthy mind.  I am uncouth and so unimaginably politically incorrect that the ACLU would probably try to sue me just for breathing.  I have very, very few personal boundaries and even those rarely get used. 

So I guess for him to read my writing here, not only the topics, but also my voice, it's something he isn't used to.  Because I write much deeper than I speak, with an emotion that comes so much easier through my fingers than out of my mouth.  And, well, because I am a writer, period.  That is what we do.

I love telling stories.  I have a lot of them to tell. 

And, as a writer, if you aren't exploiting yourself in some way for the sake of a story, you're doing it wrong.

I wouldn't say I am a broken woman.  I'm just really fucking good at what I do.

Or something like that.



  1. You have most definitely been the amazing thing of someone else. So you can change that sentence and remove all doubts.

  2. So... when do you want to go out, grab a few drinks, and talk loudly until we get kicked out?

  3. I am THERE! Oh, it would feel EXCELLENT to get kicked out of somewhere again.