You've probably noticed that I've decided to go private with my blog (you wouldn't be reading this if you didn't know that, right?) I started thinking about how I also put a lot of this on MySpace, but I only share the MySpace entries with friends. I kind of wished I could do the same here, so that I wasn't putting all my "bidness in the screet," so to speak. Then another blogger made me realize we could go private, and I thought, lemme give this a try.
I know I can be off-putting, if not offensive, with my observations about my life and the lives of those around me. I grow a huge pair of balls behind a keyboard; whereas in real life I'm afraid to tell you what I really think because you may not like me, in the blogosphere, if you don't like me? You're only two clicks away from closing my page and hitting up someone else's. When my blog was public, I started feeling like I had to sensor myself. For example, the comment I wanted to make to my IT Manager the other day, which I ended up deleting. If you saw it before I deleted it, you understand.
Now, this whole business is a double-edged sword . . . I started blogging to hear myself talk and had this deranged thought that my crazy-ass stories about my truth-is-stranger-than-fiction life and my bizarre sense of humor coupled with my half-decent writing skills would get some attention called to me and help me realize my long-forgotten pipe dreams of having more writing published. When I got pregnant and then lost the baby, I really lost patience for sugar-coating shit and my newfound gumption "in real life" translated into even cheekier, snarkier bloggery. So I thought I'd get closer to that whole getting-published-nonsense if I started really being me and writing about the REAL stuff. After all, it's funnier, more dramatic, and I don't have to hide anything or make anything up - and wouldn't people rather know I had a soul, instead of knowing me as this overweight-frustrated-medically-challeneged-newbie-triathlete, training like a fiend just to make the middle of the pack?
Nope. They sure as hell wouldn't.
All most of my blog visitors cared about was my miles on the road or yards in the pool. "Oooh . . . 40 mile ride! 18pmh! NICE!" "Aaaah...3km swim! Sweet!" "Hey! 8.5min/mile time trial! Good job!" But let them see a few lines about a trip or my relationships and all you heard was fucking crickets. You see, when it boiled down to it, few people gave a shit about the real person behind the keyboard. And those of you who did, for whatever reason, have hung around over the years for both sides of the insanity, and are here reading this drivel right now.
So, anyway . . . .
I'm sitting at Mom's feeling unspeakably depressed. I was supposed to fly back Tuesday, but I am borrowing Dad's spare car and I need to drive it home, so Dad has suggested I leave tomorrow morning, cutting my visit down to only 3 days from 4.25. (He offered to let me drive it so that I can offload my payment-heavy Prius and cut back some $$$$. Which I desparately need to if I want to pay my bills and actually afford a gym membership. Don't think I'm all that lucky; he's making me pay the payments while I drive it. Which means I need to get rid of the hippiemobile, like, yesterday.)
I hear Kona still has a limp and Girlie is still hiding from Karime. Even so, I don't want to leave. It's beautiful and quiet here; so drama-free and comfortable. My parents are here to support me, and I need the support so badly. No one really knows how "not okay" I am right now. I'd like to think I'm bulletproof - I'm not. I pretend everything is getting better - it isn't. I'm not the recklessly optimistic, carefree person I was 3 or 4 years ago - I've gone from being a little intimidated by my illnesses to flat-out fragile and sad and scared and lonely. The weather here is nice, too - less humidity to make me feel yucky. I could run every day or cycle up and down the mountain.
I actually priced apartments and did salary research on the area, because I've thought for a long time about going to grad school at UT Chattanooga, which is about 45 minutes away. Now, with my job boring me endlessly and my future looking shit-tacular, I'm trying to figure out a way to make some serious changes.
It just seems like I haven't had enough time here to enjoy being out of the loop of my normal life. I feel as if the calm, safe cocoon around me is going to dissappear the minute I step foot on Floridian soil, and it's making my last day here unbearably sad. I cried silently through most of lunch, although I don't know whether that was out of hunger (I didn't get enough to eat and I couldn't decide what else to have) or actual sadness. Either way, that's pretty pitiful. And bless my parents' and aunt's hearts - they're going to get more of it when I drive home tomorrow, too.
What I want to know is, why does an almost-30-year-old woman still need her mommy so bad, and what can I do to make it stop?
(And no, I have not run/walked yet today.)