When I began blogging, I started because my mother had an annoying habit of reading my personal journal that I hid under my mattress. Knowing my conundrum and frustration, my high school best friend introduced me to Diaryland, and the world of blogging. Problem solved: anonymously writing and venting. It was this safe place for me to share the aggravations I was facing at home, and the normal angst of a teenager. It then went on to be a place where my boyfriend and I secretly communicated. When I became pregnant with The Kiddo, it became a place to send my worries into the universe. It’s where I announced that I had given birth (reading that post brought me to tears). I got married to The Ex while I had that blog. I subtly wrote about the abuse I was suffering through, and the complications of marrying an almost perfect stranger.
No matter how much the writing in that blog makes me cringe, or the content causes an visceral reaction in me, it will always be a special place. It was my first. It was my starting point in this online community.
Blogging has seen me through the last decade (and more) of my life. That, alone, blows my mind.
If I had asked myself ten years ago, if I would still be at this blogging thing in a decade, I probably would have laughed. Ultimately, I wanted to be a writer, but at that given time, blogging was just a hobby. The idea that I might be using blogging as a medium to branch into a full career as a writer would have seemed silly to me. Yet, here I am. Still writing, still sharing, not making much (if any) money.
|The High School BFF and I,
back when selfies were taken
It’s kind of a mind-trip to go back and read entries from a decade ago. After I managed to get into my first blog, I spent hours pouring over the entries. I laughed at my former self, wondered out loud why no one stopped her from stupid decisions, and thanked the universe that I have actually changed. Because even on the days where I wonder if I have, aside from the extra weight I carry, and the never-going-away bags under my eyes, I sometimes think I haven’t grown that much as a person.
Oh, but I have.
At the very heart, I’m still that insecure sixteen year old girl struggling with her abusive past, and wanting to be something great in her life. Yet, I’ve added so much more to her. She’s now a survivor, a wife, and a mother. She has confidence (but could use much, much more) in herself, and has, despite the curveballs she’s seen in the last decade, managed to not become too jaded. She still dances to terrible music, and cleans when she’s exceptionally stressed. She managed to find her voice and started writing about her adoption, boldly. That girl still loves to curl up with a good book, and have terrible inside jokes with her best friends. Oh, how she loves a good bottle of white wine. She’s learned to cook, and to count to ten before she decides to yell. She still hates ducks, and sushi, loves getting the same kind of notes that were passed in high school.
And, she has, somehow, managed to write through some of the best, the worst, and dullest parts of her life with maturity, grace and a willingness to learn. She’s changed so much in herself, and her life, but she is, proudly, still a blogger.