There are days when I come to this blog from the homepage and wonder who it was typed out the words. It seems a little flowery for comfort here sometimes, not enough stones in the pebbly mix. Years ago I blogged anonymously. The thing about writing anonymously is that it leaves you free to bemoan almost everything. From a blog aspect that’s great for misery loves company no matter the medium, yet from a self point it’s purely destructive. cathartic as it may be to get it all out, have those feelings of sadness/anger/frustration/revenge/jealousy/yougetthepicture vindicated, empathy from strangers doesn’t take those feelings away. Far from releasing the feelings otherwise vent inside, you’re just hoarding them up for safe keeping. Before you really know it, your escape from reality is a haven no longer: Not only have you blogged the crap out of life, you’ve blogged your life into crap in your space.
When I first began living in Turkey, I was surrounded by other expats. Night after night, bar after bar, conversations swam with frustrations about living here, work grievances, bureaucracy issues, cultural differences of the negative kind. Trapped in this routine it’s easy to start wondering why you’re here in the first place, to lose the mystique from the dusty side streets. When you grumble together, grumbles quickly can turn into roars. I’m in touch with few of those long-term expats now, our lives are too different and this world is too small, but from those evenings – of which many were riotous fun also – I took a lesson I carry: It’s not what we are looking at, but what we see with our eyes.
Life as an expat in a country so disarmingly similar yet so strikingly different to your own is tough; being a Mum here is too often terrifying; being a wife here is almost damn near impossible. When compounded with all the differences which abound everyday, I could, too easily, write reams on frustrations and tears and terse words and burnt toast and spilt coffee (which is far worse than milk) and pooey nappies and puke stains and crying babies.
But instead of writing, in those moments of calm, reflections of the noise, I choose to note mostly the beauty in chaos, like the blanket I just found tucked in through the foot of T’s crib when I’d left it – most definitely – on the bed M couldn’t this morning climb onto.
Memories are sealed in the repeating of them. I know for certain that when I’m an old lady looking back on this blog, it’s not tense days I want to be recalling, or anxiety to feel flowing from the page. I want to remember the insignificant, the precious tears on an everyday nothing.
But that doesn’t mean somedays I don’t just really, but really, want to blog the crap out of life.