Jealousy and Fear

I've been looking for - and finding - a shitload of inspiration out here in the Internets. Lots of amazing, talented, gifted writers who blow me away in 500 words or 4000 words of whatever. Fiction, non-fiction, blogs. I've even found one writer who is currently being celebrated while I think she's just kind of bitchy. One of her adoring fans, a fledgling writer, asked her how to deal with jealousy, and she responded that the girl didn't have enough experience yet to be jealous. WTF. Jealousy is jealousy. It's illogical and irrational and shitty and you can't help the way you feel. That's what makes it so awful. "Hey there, green monster. It's not time for you yet! Wait until I've sweated and toiled for 10 years and gotten nowhere. Then come back for only then I shall be worthy of harboring jealous thoughts." Get over yourself, already. And stop making women feel like their feelings aren't valid. That's not cool. It's like eating your young.

I found a new-to-me blog tonight that made me laugh out loud. Not the cutesy emoji-type "lol!" but a full on, gut-busting belly laugh. I promptly bookmarked it so I can go back and eventually suck up every last word this woman has written.

And then I got jealous.

I wasn't jealous of her writing style, necessarily, or her wicked sense of humor. (She's got the emotional posts, too, that sucker punch you right into tears...the woman has serious composition chops.)

I was jealous because I could easily read her blog. Anyone could easily read her blog.

She's out there, sharing her life with the world and not giving a rat's ass who sees it. She, apparently, doesn't work with grown men who behave like adolescent bullies.

Which made me wonder if I'm the one who is at fault. Those guys will be rat-fink fuckerheads no matter what I do or say or write. They will skulk around and cast dispersions and get drunk in the boiler room (really, who does that any more?) and I'm letting them win. I let them send me into darkness, locking the door behind me because I'm afraid of what? Them? Their laughter? Their judgement?

Good God.

I have outgrown the pimples and the mall bangs and the garish day-glo colors of the 80s, but I apparently have not outgrown the fear. This makes me want to vomit. (Insert "gag me with a spoon" reference here.)

I'm considering coming out of the dark.

I don't know.

I mean, I know I will eventually. Eventually I will not work with The Assholes and therefore their awful intimidation will quite simply be removed. Either they will leave or I will leave, and then for sure I will step back into the light. But until then, I will continue to wonder if I'm doing the right thing by hiding. Is it self-preservation? Or is it pansy-ass cowardice? And I wonder, have I been dark long enough that they are no longer hunting for me? Can I creep back out and fly under the radar? The only thing that is stopping me from assuming that is that I know I will walk around every day wondering if they are watching. That's a pretty nasty load to carry around, and I've got enough monkeys on my back right now, thankyouverymuch.