I found hard to talk about myself

(or Why I keep this website)

(or Why it takes so much time for me to update this website)

(or Why this blog post is so short)

2024/08/30

This is just something I have to live with as far as I remember. I can't talk about myself. Everytime I try, I feel something really bad, that I can't describe. It's not repulse, It's not fear, It's not sadness. It is a kind of dispair, some panic, some psycho little monkey screaming in my head that I can't talk about myself because it is bad. "Stop, stop now! Talk about something else" says the little monkey. And I can't stop hearing it. And if I keep talking, the monkey will scream louder, louder and louder, until I start crying and can't talk anymore. But usually I stop talking before this happens, cause I also don't cry very often.

As a child I was constantly told to shut everytime I tried to talk (and as with most chiilds, I usually wanted to talk about myself or something that I liked), so maybe that's the reason I can't talk about myself.

That's why I keep this website. Here is the place to talk about myself to teach the monkey to not scream in my mind. I know that talking about myself to others is something I have to do to make actual bonds with people. So the monkey can't stop me.

That's why I takes so much time for me to update this website. I'm still training the monkey. It still screams. It's still hard to talk about myself, even through text. Even to strangers online. But I hope that doing that will teach my psycho little monkey to shut, maybe even get out of my head forever.

That's why this blog post is so short. If I could (and I will be able to), I would write more.

Comigo me desavim,
sou posto em todo perigo;
não posso viver comigo
nem posso fugir de mim.

Com dor, da gente fugia,
antes que esta assim crescesse:
agora já fugiria
de mim, se de mim pudesse.
Que meo espero ou que fim
do vão trabalho que sigo,
pois que trago a mim comigo
tamanho imigo de mim?
I miffed with myself,
I am placed in all danger;
I cannot live with me
nor can I flee from myself.

With pain, I fled from people,
before this one grew so much;
now I would flee
from me, if from me I could.
What hope or end do I expect
from the vain toil I follow,
since I carry with me
such enmity of myself?

- Sá de Miranda