I’ve gone private. Readers now by invitation only. So welcome. Kind of. I mean, I write for myself, always have. Yet as time moves forward writing has taken the me OUT of me, if that makes sense. I decided to go private because of my children. I’m in therapy, the purpose to reconnect with my young adult kids. My therapist asked if they would have any chance of actually finding me here. I’m semirenegade, I told her. How would they know that? Then I quickly admitted to myself how open my blog had become; sharing it more with friends, not to mention other followers finding me simply because of the content expressed. According to the adult mind, my journey is one of self-discovery. The kids could care less about self-anything having to do with me. They do not care about my story. At least not now. Maybe never. Maybe not. The only thing certain is uncertainty.
Anonymity, while it allows one freedom to speak directly, I am at odds with privacy. Part of me yearns to share, to connect with others who endure, face estrangement every day, learning to cope with the void. It’s not as if I’m an empty shell. There’s just something missing in my life – a connection with two significant people. My voice here, I started feeling more comfortable using it on this platform. So now I find myself holding back a little bit more, though this blog is much less public. Irony. Never ceases to enlighten. That said, this blog has given me the opportunity to reveal myself thru my writing – where I believe I am most comfortable sharing openly, without much hesitation. No longer content to spew forth my story, the realization of over-sharing, writing has, in essence, become its own serenity, a refuge for those who are eager to learn about themselves such as I. Time to refocus and keep going.