Forty-seven weeks of blogging and I’ve run out of things to say. Sure. I have plenty to say. Lots and lots to say. But there’s just certain things that are off limits. It sometimes feels that there’s more things not to write about then there is to write about.
- The story about the gay strippers and the lollipop. That’s just dirty.
- How my friends, my family, my parents can be absolutely intolerable sometimes. That’s just rude.
- That I sometimes get dressed for other people, not for me. That’s just vain.
- Sharing my sometimes feelings about: sexism, classism, racism, ageism. That’s just not PC.
- The pressure I feel to be perfect all the time. How I’m afraid to show weakness. That’s just crazy.
- That I spent a whole week watching every episode of “How I Met Your Mother.” All nine seasons. That’s just self-indulgent and pretty lame.
- Anything less then complimentary about my husband. That’s just private (and, as my husband would say, impossible)
- The anger I feel. The “want to punch a wall”, “revenge fantasy”, “soul burning”, anger I feel for the people who have done me wrong. That’s just scary.
- How I feel about millennial men, and certain friends who wear their pants to short, and stupid people. That’s just judgmental, a bit misogynistic, and awfully snobby.
- The disappointment that I feel that I didn’t do enough before the kids were born. That I missed out on things, That I have regrets. That’s just selfish.
- My budget for skin care products. That’s just embarrassing and not nearly as self-loving as I’d like.
- Whether I love one kid better than the other or not. That’s just horrible.
We all have things that we are embarrassed to admit. Things that we are afraid to say out loud. Things that are painful, or hurtful, or just not acceptable. Things that people will judge us for, or that we will fault ourselves for. Things that are just ours alone, that we hold in the recesses of our heart. And yet, if we were just to say them out loud. If we were just to put words to our private truths, we’d find that we’re all in the same boat. That we share the same fears, and pains, and dreams if we could only just put word to them.
And, even as I write this list, and purge all of the little things that I’ve wanted to write about but I haven’t. Whether to protect myself or to protect others. I’m cringing at the thought of my father reading this (yeah, Dad, I’m talking to you) because he looks for things to worry about, and he uses my blog to measure my happiness, and he loves to debate what I write. Because, as I tell him often, the blog is not for him, it’s for me. Because, as public as my blog is, it’s also intensely private. For everything I’ve said, there’s a thousand things that I haven’t. For every word I’ve written, the spaces between the words and the things that are omitted are where the truths really lie.