The Irony of Blogging

When I was 10, I worked for and earned my first little pink diary with a lock. It was easily picked. Regardless, I poured in my little heart and soul and hid it every day. My brother found it, read it, and teased me about it. I still have it and hide it to protect that little 10 year old girl.

When I was 12, I decided to start up again. I took lined paper and stapled them together. It was puberty which meant a very tumultuous time. I wrote in it religiously and hid it between the mattress and box springs of my bed. I would have died if anybody read what I wrote. I actually don't remember much besides "I love Robert Johnson and he likes me, too," but I would still protect that adolescent if I could find the paper.

I graduated to a formal journal when my mother gave me one for Christmas at the age of 14. This was older adolescence but still quite personal. I continued keeping an accurate record (according to my perceptions) for the next 12 years. It is a record of my journey from gawky teenager to gawky adult. My journey of love to loss, my college years, my dates, my crushes, my boyfriends, my family relationships, friendships, hopes, and dreams. I recorded the awe of new experiences - different colleges, getting degrees, having roommates, traveling to Europe, my first professional jobs, spiritual experiences, thoughts, and ideas. I have no idea how many of these I have. I assume it's somewhere in the ballpark of 15-20 bound books. I know where these are. I have them buried beneath boxes in my basement. So buried that I don't know EXACTLY where they are but neither does anybody else.

Again, I don't want anybody to read those books. Not because I want to protect the child in them but I want to protect the woman I have become. The journals are a record of my journey to the person I have become now. I don't want them to be held a standard for judgment of who I am.

Since I got married, I've tried to keep a journal but have been haphazard about it. We have a family journal that I've finally given over to the kids with the directive to write whenever they want and describe family events. I've also included awards, talks they have given at church, and anything else in an effort to keep a record of our existence without having to actually write.

When my oldest son turned 8, he entered cub scouts. His leader delighted me. She was so enjoyable to talk to. We talked all through pack meeting. Her husband, irritated with us, finally told us to just start blogging. And that's where it all began.

So now I blog. I share my journey with whoever wants to know and hope to high heaven the people reading it are not judging me too harshly if they know me. My blog is my creative and therapeutic outlet. My hope is that I become a better writer and communicator and also others will learn from my experiences as I learn from others. I also want to frame my experiences into a finite essay to make sense of them. And, of course, my passion for humor. I want to find and create humor that bubbles from within and explodes with a laugh. This also improves my daily life and perceptions. I want to laugh when it seems there is nothing to laugh about. I am addicted to endorphins.

I am also addicted to honest sharing. There is so much to learn from other women. We have so many similar struggles. What a wonderful community we have! I want to believe I am strong, self-sufficient, and a woman who can take on child rearing, keeping a home, juggling a career, serving in my church and community, developing my emotional, spiritual, physical, and mental self, but I don't. I struggle, have guilt, anxiety, bad days, and feelings of inadequacy.

And so here is my journal, posted for the public rather than stuffed between my mattress and box springs. Thank you for walking this way with me and letting me be at your side. Thank you for validating me and sharing your journey with me.

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Please don't remind Robert Johnson that I loved him in the 6th grade. I have a class reunion coming up in three weeks.

(Unless his wife is fatter, uglier, and older than I am. Then I can show him what he missed out on.)