I woke up in the middle of the night last night and this blog post began forming in my brain, seemingly out of nowhere. I’m not sure if I dreamed this, or if my subconscious gave me a nudge, but here I am, putting down my thoughts on my trusty blog.
I’ve been a blogger for about a decade. Not always here – in different places at first, before this one finally came together. I’ve shared most of the last eight years of my life here. Single motherhood, reuniting with CBG, our years of being in a long distance relationship, parenting, engagement, marriage, step parenting, friendships, relationship strife, marriage bliss, personal growth.
I woke up at 3:00 am knowing that it’s time. I’ve been letting go of other aspects of my life, and it’s become clear to me that this is one of them. As time goes on there has been far less to write about. I feel guarded about continuing to write my own story; this city is far too small and there are people with access to these words that I would prefer didn’t have it. Some things I could ignore — like my ex husband having his mother read and copy my posts in case I said anything incriminating that could be used against me in a potential custody battle should one ever arise; to former friends hell bent on convincing themselves and the rest of their cult (yes, a literal CULT) that I was mentally ill, or at the very least miserable without them, simply because I saw through the lies and no longer wished to live it. There’s also the friend who blasted me when CBG made the decision to move here to be with me — I guess reading my blog made her feel like she had permission to pass judgement on my life, when hers wasn’t exactly perfect either. Hell, I even had CBG’s EX WIFE reading at one point. I used to not care about all of this. But now I just don’t want to give people access to information about me.
So no more writing about me.
I no longer feel comfortable writing about my daughters, now that they’re older. They’ve got their own stories now, that are theirs to tell, or not tell. It felt different when they were little; they were a part of me. But now I need to give them some privacy, as well as the freedom to make their own choices and fly off into the world.
So no more writing about my daughters.
And then we come to my marriage. Time has shown me that we all just end up sitting on the couch watching bad tv, wondering what happened to the person you fell in love with all those years ago. Maybe there are no great love stories after all.
So no more writing about my marriage.
And so, that leaves me with nothing, really. Stories about my cats will only take me so far. So the time has come to say goodbye. Perhaps I’ll write again, in a different space with new stories. Maybe stories filled with optimism. With wit and clever tales. Maybe I’ll fill my readers with useful, life changing information. Or hell, maybe I’ll write those cat stories after all.
Or then again, maybe I won’t.
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