Blogging: A source of anxiety?

I really wanted to start this blog so that I could share some of my quilting stuff.

Since that is still on hold, I fear it will become a never ending list of complaints about how my life sucks. Who wants to read that? I barely have the energy to type it out. Still, I have an obligation to continue in the interest of finishing something I have started. Will it be therapeutic to put all of this crap out there, to get it out of my head and onto "paper"? Is it foolish to put it out there and let the entire world know how screwed up my thinking has become? Nothing on the internet is ever truly deleted so I am taking a chance here...that is terrifying to me.

I feel like I'm expected to be doing fun things, visiting with family, making better use of my time. Unfortunately, my brain won't allow that. Here's an example of one excuse I make to keep me home alone. I shouldn't call it an excuse since it's how I really feel right now, but I'm calling it as I believe others might see it.

I can bring nothing to anyone else right now. No physical thing, no gift, no baked good, nothing which might cost money. I have nothing, let alone anything to share. Giving someone the gift of my presence, my company, is pointless. I am a beating to be around. I have no good news to share, no stories about things that I've been doing. To open my mouth is to allow a stream of complaints to spew forth, and nobody wants to hear them. Even if someone says that they will listen, it's hard to get their attention from the electronic device(s) in their face, the knocks on their door, the phone ringing, the pets begging...there's no room for me and my bullshit. I find it very lonely to be in a room full of people who aren't paying attention to one another because they have the internet in their hands. It takes far too much energy and pain for me to actually leave my house, only to be mostly ignored.

Aside from wishing for, and not getting someone's attention, I'd rather not be a taker. There are things I need and cannot get or do for myself, and asking for them has become an exercise in futility. Nobody has the time, and them throwing money at me to "fix" them leaves me feeling guilty. These gestures aren't loans that I can ever repay, and they don't feel like gifts given out of love or concern.

Ugh, I can't even completely express my thoughts here for fear that someone might read them and be hurt. The funny thing is, nobody is reading, just like nobody is listening, or hearing, or understanding the point I'm getting at. How could they? It's all pretty pointless. I'm ending this post here, because I feel actual nausea from my thoughts. To anyone in the future who might come across this blog, my psychiatrist has recently moved out of state, Feels good.