I’ve always blogged in my head.
Even before there was such as thing as a “blog,” this stream-of-consciousness-Andy-Rooney-esque commentary on life would be continually running through my brain, getting in the way of other, more fruitful thoughts. Only I’d edit my rambling, stopping myself just short of – dare I say – enlightenment to study the grammar of the sentence with which I was involved.
This is the only purpose I can see for this thing called “blogging.” It might shut up the never-ending flow of commentary long enough for me to balance my checkbook in peace.
For years I tried journaling. A box of them is in my closet and every now and then I take one out and listen to it whine and whine and whine. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love me enough. He doesn’t love me in the right way. He never loved me. I don’t’ need him to love me. So there. Then I tear up the pages and trash it. The box is half empty.
No. Journaling is too private. You need accountability. You need to know that if you lapse in to maudlin self-pity, someone is going to give you a prosaic slap in the face and tell you to Just. Shut. Up.
So this is my take on my world, which may be the same or different than your take on your world. Don’t take it personally.
I know a first entry should introduce who I am, but I think that will reveal itself in time. As a springboard, suffice it to say I’m a 48-year-old female, married, with two teenage sons.