When I started this here little blog I did so with the knowledge that my friends and family, specifically my mother (*waves*), would be reading. She
stalked relentlessly knew about my twitter account and frankly, it seemed like too much work to try and covertly lure everyone over to a new account so I could tweet and blog without my family reading. After that I chose to post on Facebook as well, figuring if the two people who made me were going to be reading, did it really matter if someone I haven’t seen for ten years stumbled across my little corner of the internet?
It was shortly after I hit publish for the first time that I realized how difficult this would be. I believe it was the always wise, Mr. Lady who told me that writing like they aren’t reading is one of the hardest things to do. And she’s right. Being so “out” about my blog means there are certain topics that I won’t ever write about. I would never write about something that would embarrass or hurt my family. Not that I would even if they weren’t reading, but knowing they are makes it all the most certain that I won’t’. It makes writing about the dark days and sad times more difficult because I know that it will worry my parents. And there’s been a lot of dark and sad in the past few years, but I have to decide if writing about it here in this space is cathartic enough to risk worrying them. I usually err on the side of no worry.
I think I’m starting to find a balance. And by balance I mean I usually just say, “Oh fuck it. I’m writing anyway.” Yes, there are journals and less public places to express my feelings, but sometimes, especially during the dark days, you need to know that someone is listening. That someone read and acknowledged that you’re feeling this way. Even if they don’t comment. Even if it’s only your page views going up by one.
I joke that my mom is the only one reading, but it’s easy to forget. Just like I assume 90% of Facebook is glossing right over my, “New post thisaway,” sign or just like yes I know that eating an entire box of double stuffed oreos is bad for me, but that doesn’t stop me in the moment. It’s easy to forget they’re reading.
Until you post about your boobs and your dad leaves a comment.