I know some of my readers are. You're thinking, "Dear lord, she's already told us the nitty gritty details of her infertility, pregnancy complications, birth, breastfeeding, depression and every disappointment and joy in her life. What else could there be????"
Others are nodding in agreement thinking, "Yes, we all censor. Even to ourselves. Who ever really bares it all except in the dark of night in those terrifyingly torpid moments when we wonder who we are and why we seem to be traveling at a glacial pace to nowhere?" (Or maybe that's just me.)
I don't write about my job or my clients. I don't write things that might hurt family members or friends. There are certain areas of my marriage that are off limits. Aside from that, I don't censor much. But you see I've run across something, or should I say someone, from the past in the blogosphere. In my corner of the world. Not that I own the blogging world, but it's made me think even more about what and how much I reveal here.
I'm not worried about the mundane details like name, address, and phone number. If you've got enough time that's easy enough to find. I've been easily Google-able since before Google. It's not that I have a diary of my daily happenings on display. (Y'all know I find that as about as exciting as watching paint dry.) No, what's bothering me is the display of those even more personal details found only inside my head and on the digital pages of this memorialization of my soul.
I'm 35 years old, so what do I have to hide? From people I know now? Nothing. You've never known me as anything other than what I am. I don't hide who I am now. From people who once knew me long ago? Who walked beside me in hallways, watched from stadium risers, and knew more intimate moments? Everything.
I wish I could explain this with more clarity, but I find myself for once, amazingly, almost stuck for words.
There's a bit of an exhibitionist in every blogger. I have a need to put myself, my words, my thoughts, and my art out there for you to see, to read, to judge, to admire. Admiration is the crack that feeds the
writer's blogger's soul. For awhile I wondered who I was writing this blog for. Me? Or the hundreds of people who read it? (OK, so maybe it was hundreds. In my blog-slacking over the last 6 months it's become more like hundred, no s. On a good day.)
But only when faced with the possibility of the ultimate of readers, the ultimate admiration, by someone who once was everything and who still does, and always will, occupy a tiny piece of my heart, do I realize the truth:
This blog is for me.
It isn't for you. It isn't for her.
It isn't for him.
It would be better if I never looked again. If I deleted the link, the contact, and walked away. But morbid curiosity, wonder at what might have been, or even the need for some glimpse of what will be, will keep me going back. I know. Just to look. To peek. Maybe even to gloat or revel in my blessings. Silently, of course.
I already suspect a line or two written for my eyes. A reminder of what is no longer mine, what really hasn't been mine for a very long time - half a lifetime, almost. I know that.
I have my own life. I have my own love. I have my own family. There are no regrets. Everything in my life made me who I am now. Despite all my insecurities, neuroses, and overly complicated, twisted, self-absorbed, overly reflective mind, I love who I am. I wouldn't change a thing that happened 20 years ago or 15 years ago. My first love, my first heartbreak, my first everything brought me to where I am now, to the love of my life, to the two loves of something even more.
After almost two years of frank exhibitionism, I realize that there is one person I don't want to perform for. There is one person I don't want reading this blog.
So I'm hoping that he won't. And I'm hoping that you won't give him the chance to.