I Contain Multitudes

a woman blogger in a bright room

That’s why I’m all over the map

I’ve always wanted to be a blogger. Well, always being for the last 20 years, because blogs didn’t actually exist when I was a kid. But as a media for sharing thoughts and information, I think blogs are pretty damn neat.

The problem is, there is SO MUCH I want to say. When you say you want to start a blog, the first thing people ask is, “can you produce enough content?” I’ve got so much fucking content in my head the hard part is getting it to line up and exit my brain in an orderly fashion. Right now there’s a bit of a traffic jam with lots and lots of thoughts trying to get out at the same time.

The second thing they ask is, “what’s it going to be about?” And that part has been tricky.

The thing is, I’m highly educated, well-read, and introspective. I’m also hilarious, engaging, and yes, incredibly profane. I’ve got lots of shit to say about LOTS of things and choosing a single theme has felt impossible. I’ve got legal thoughts and social thoughts and economic thoughts and thoughts on sex and family and reproduction and feelings and just SO MANY FUCKING THOUGHTS.

But then I realized they do have one thing in common: healing.

I am the walking wounded. It has been a long, hard life for me, and I’m still coming to terms with just how incredibly bad it really was. On the surface, I’m the most put-together person you’ve ever met. In law school they did this senior skit video every year, and it was a thing to make sure each graduating person was mentioned. Literally the only thing they could think to say about me is that I had my shit together. Other mothers also see me as the one who has her shit together. I started out so fucking poor we lived in derelict buildings and didn’t get to eat every day. By the age of thirty-five I was one of the top writers of incredibly specialized legal briefs. Like, most lawyers do not understand/cannot do what I do. That kind of ascension doesn’t happen unless you have your shit together.

I do not have my shit together.

I am just really, really, REALLY good at coping. Nobody gets up and keeps on going like I do. Apparently it’s inspiring.

I think it’s really fucking sad.

Americans don’t value healing. They value coping. Mental health in America is defined as “does it interfere with your daily activities?” Seriously, I’ve seen loads of therapists, taken loads of evaluations, and they ALWAYS ask that, first and foremost.

NOTHING interferes with my daily functioning. I never had anyone to take care of me, even when I was so small it now makes me queasy to think about having to fend for myself at that age. I was all I had. In my mind, staying in bed because I felt sad simply wasn’t an option, because if I did that, I would die. It’s easy to look at it that way when you’re hungry enough. So I learned to cope.

It didn’t matter what happened, or how bad things got. And omg did they get bad sometimes. I got up and kept going. My wounds never healed, they just scabbed over. But underneath they’ve been festering.

The thing is, true healing is really hard work. It takes time, it takes support, and more than anything else, it takes money. Because in America, EVERYTHING takes money.

The opportunity to heal shouldn’t be a privilege. But it is. And through a combination of hard work and luck, I have put myself in a position where I can give myself the time and space to open up the wounds, clean out the infection, and let the sun and air truly mend my poor heart.

Throughout my life, I have been aided in many intangible ways by other people who have gone on journeys of healing and self-discovery and chosen to share their experiences—and their feelings—with the public. It has occurred to me that if *those* people healing out loud helped *me* perhaps it could help someone else if I made my healing journey public.

But healing looks differently for different people. For me, healing is about more than just therapy. It’s about community and art and literature and family and spirituality and even politics. 1 And writing. The writing is the biggest part of it. So if the blog sometimes feels eclectic and unfocused, it’s because I’m eclectic and unfocused.

Now, I’m going to share as much as I can openly, but some of this shit is hard to say and I feel like I deserve a barrier between myself and the public for those things. Both to keep the trolls out, and to keep the poison in.

The Substack paywall is meant to be a wall, not a source of income.

Do I fantasize about going viral and being able to support myself and hire my friends to work for me? Sure, that’s how dreams work. But that isn’t the plan.

Regardless of what happens with this blog, I’m still going back to school, getting my MFA, and becoming a teacher. That is my goal. This blog is just a passion project.

I want this blog to spread far and wide because it is my passion project, and I want to share my passion with the world. That’s how art works.

I talked to a marketing guy last week. I thought he could give me tips on how to spread the word. He told me “marketing is all about changing people’s minds.”

I don’t want to change anyone’s mind. I want to talk to people like me. People who have been hurt but want to feel better. People who want change, and think the way to get it is by spreading love, empathy, and compassion. If that isn’t you, then this blog isn’t for you, and I feel no need or desire to change that.

Because I truly believe there’s a million of us, just like me, who cuss like me, who just don’t give a fuck like me, who dress like me, walk, talk, and act like me…2 Those are the people I’m talking to.

Becoming Alternative is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider subscribing to my substack at https://becomingalternative.substack.com/ or making a one time gift at https://venmo.com/u/rmfontenot

1 For someone who doesn’t like poetry, I’ve sure got a lot of it floating around in my head. That’s Walt Whitman right there. Song of Myself. I’m not reprinting it here because it’s REALLY FUCKING LONG. Go google it.

2 It’s from an Eminem song, but I have no idea which one. I just heard it and it stuck with me. I’m not really an Eminem fan, per se, but I think the man is a fucking GENIUS with words. And I like words. So even though I don’t like the music of Eminem, I enjoy the words of Marshall Mathers. And those ones are some of my favorites.

I also REALLY like “Will Smith don’t gotta cuss in his rap to sell records. Well I do. So fuck him and fuck you, too.” That’s good shit right there. I can RELATE to that.

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