Reaffirming the Cause

As I sit here and watch the hubby shoot the opposing team on Call of Duty 3 (rented, we, and by "we" I mean "I" am still too cheap to buy it of course,) I ponder the reasons I started this blog. For years when I was younger, I would receive the obligatory girly diary, sometimes even with a key, not that I had any siblings to keep out of it, but hey, it was a cool concept. It would be months before I'd be inspired to finally attempt to write but in each and every one of those diaries or journals, I'd maybe write only a page or two. Some rant about how my mom sucked and so did the rest of the world, blah blah blah. It never worked, I never felt the purpose behind it. No drive to keep it up past that initial blast of emotion that caused me to pick it up in the first place. Pages that I would end up ripping out and throwing away, simply so I could use the journal for something else down the line. To this day I still have a few empty journals sitting there all lonely on the shelf collecting dust.

My introduction to the online world happened long ago, probably at least over ten years now. AOL (which is still the bane of my existence, a horror you would know if you had ever experienced it) was an addiction that grew as high school began and as my place in life became less and less defined in that social hierarchy. I fell in love with chatrooms, talking to people about anything and everything, just amazed with the feeling of reaching across the country, across the world to this other person who knew nothing about me. It was more liberating then I could have imagined. I could leave out the things I didn't like about myself, embellish the things I did, and the occasional flat out lie didn't matter because we were never going to meet beyond the computer screen and keyboard. I was young, it was all so exciting. Back then was before the public television announcements warning parents to guard what their kids have access to online. I guess I was pretty smart about it though, part of what was so thrilling was the complete anonymity. They didn't have to know where I was, or even who I was, and I was free to say whatever I wanted without the repercussions that come from speaking to someone face to face. I think chatrooms is where I developed my inner bitch, thank you for that. Along with that spectacular inner bitch, I acquired a knack for the keyboard that I only wish could make my mom proud. The top I have been clocked is about 85 words per minute, but I average around 70 typically. Nothing compared to the 100+ of my mom, but I doubt she could type and watch television while getting high at the same time, heh, if only she knew. I've found I type much faster then I write things out longhand, duh, and it helps me keep up with my thoughts that just keep going. Plus since I was in like junior high I have had a thing about my handwriting, which sucks because there is nothing wrong with it. I'm just not satisfied so I end up rewriting everything, even the grocery list a lot of times.

Those typing skills, interest in the internet, that ever constant failure to even try to keep a diary or journal, all put together with the fact that besides the hubby (who has heard it all by now,) I don't have a person to unload it all on, a place to get a new perspective, or a way to feel better about all of those things that I let bottle up until I burst into tears for no apparent reason in front of strangers, yeah, all of that has led me to the world wide web of blogging.

I tried one in the past, a few years ago, right here on Blogger. I narrowed myself by telling too many people about it. Once I showed my mom, and I don't think I ever posted another thing on it after that. Doubtful she'd ever remember the address to get back to it, but I realized all confidentiality I had, had been ruined.

For a long time I didn't even think about it, until MySpace came along. It was awesome at first, I found so many people that I never thought I would see again, let alone get a peek into their lives. However it's a diverse group of people we have acquired on our friend's list. People with connections to my mom or whatnot, causing me to limit what I wanted to say, while there were others who it was easier to bare all with, as long as they didn't know you were bearing all with this other person and ugh, are we back in high school again? I'd realized my last blog entry there was back in June, about a barbeque we had and the pictures from it. Nothing personal really, just the safe basics. With the inspiration for the post "Am I Wrong?" stewing in my overactive head, I knew I had to do something for my peace of mind, to get it off my chest, to just feel freaking better about everything. And I knew I couldn't do it there.

So again I try. My hubby is the only physical person in my life who knows about this glorious page and for now anyway I plan on keeping it that way. That's not to say I don't want readers, because believe me I do. I take no satisfaction from trying to address this "Dear Diary" or something of the like. I write these words as much for me as I do for anyone who wishes to read them. I may have come here to not be judged, but that doesn't mean that I didn't want to be heard. And because this is turning out to mean so much to me, I am trying to do my best to not hold back. I keep telling myself I have no reason to censor myself, but that isn't an easy commitment to make.

The main thing that has stopped me more then once from backspacing and deleting this line or that one is because if I can't be me with myself, what luck do I have with the rest of the world? My hubby has taught me a lot about being myself, simply because that is who he loves. Every curve (even the extra ones,) every scar (and believe me I got a big one I'll mention some time) and every flaw (um... see other posts?) and he loves me. He is my confidence, which is all fine and good, but I think it's about time I found some on my own, which is where this blog again enters the picture.

So bare with me in this self-actualizing mess I call a blog, because it really is therapy without the couch, paying a hundred bucks an hour and without the bobble head of a shrink asking me why I feel the way I feel and how I feel about the way I feel. (Really I can only guess but could you believe I wouldn't mind trying therapy someday?) Maybe, just maybe, this will make a difference. To me, to you, to the cow jumping over the moon, something. So far, it has already felt worth it. Thank you.