The day I started blogging. Eight years ago. Crazy.
I started writing when my mom was diagnosed with lymphoma. And kept writing until it was just about me. Mom was fine, but I’d found an outlet. And some strangers who somehow found me, read me and kept coming back.
I was kind of fanatic about it for a while. I had to post every day. Or I’d feel guilty. And I’d post about anything. TV show, magazine, what I ate. Then I came to the point where I didn’t post every day. And it was hard. I would force myself not to. And then it became cumbersome. So I took a break. And came back. Took another break. And came back. You get this picture.
This has been my longest stretch without writing nearly daily. I’ve done Facebook stuff, but it’s not the same. I’ve been reading other blogs and wishing I had their style. I’ve wished I could make a living with a blog, but that will never happen. I’ll never be as interesting as that.
I’m just me. Talking about me. My life. My joys and struggles. My family and friends. Really, as long as it revolves around me, I’ll write it about me.
I have struggled a lot with my depression this year. Hence the no writing. It’s hard to know what to say. So it’s easier to just not say anything. I finally broke down and went to see my old therapist. I felt like I was at rock bottom. I think I looked that way too because she immediately set up some weekly sessions.
I sat on the couch and cried. Like I haven’t cried in a long time. That desperate, aching cry. From that place where you feel like you’ll never be able to get out of. Again.
I can pinpoint the trigger on a simple thing. The end of a friendship. And it was killing me that I let it knock me down. For so long.
Someone who was once a very important friend stopped talking to me earlier this year. And I don’t know why. What did I say? What did I do? What was so terrible that it was worth ending a nearly 15-year friendship?
She wouldn’t tell me. She was just “busy.” All day, every day. But not to busy for the person in the next office.
I used to think that our friendship was so valuable to us both that I never even imagined that one day I’d be here. Wondering what the hell happened.
Oh, I asked. I was told I was being paranoid. I waited and asked again. Challenged her. But she was busy and it wasn’t up to me to quantify her busy-ness. The end.
She had two baby girls this year. And it’s about near killed me. The outfits I saw and instinctively wanted to buy before remembering. People asking me how cute they are and having to tell them I don’t know. The just wanting to call and she how she’s doing. Or share a website I thought she might like.
But I couldn’t. And I kept it in. I didn’t tell anyone for nearly five months that she’d stopped being my friend. In May, after the babies were born and I wasn’t allowed to see them, I told a few people, but it would make me cry, so I stopped. I kept it in till I had a meltdown.
I couldn’t believe something like this would knock me down so badly. I mean, what the hell am I going to do when something MAJOR happens in my life?
So I left that therapy session totally drained, but with homework. She wants me to start writing again. That was two+ weeks ago, so obviously I’m dragging my feet.
I’d stopped posting at Vox because I didn’t feel like I could write truthfully there without mutual friends reading. I felt like I couldn’t talk about what I was going through and eventually I found I just didn’t want to talk about pretty much anything going on.
I thought about my blogger blog. My original home. So I’ve been putzing around. Checking out the new stuff. I like what I see and found a template I like a lot. You know me and hearts.
This is a long and rambling new first post when all I really wanted to say is, I’m back. At least now you know where I’ve been.