It's been more than a year since I blogged and even longer since I did so regularly.
I can't remember a specific reason as to why I stopped. I can blame the pandemic, but that would be a blatant falsehood given the sheer number of gluten-free cakes I baked and endless board game tournaments my husband and I played while in lockdown.
I can blame Instagram sort of. My IG posts have replaced my writing, but in a more "look at me, I'm happy and productive, aren't I, don't you see that?" way than the diary-like uncovering-topics-I-should-explore-in-therapy, pseudo-anonymity writing that my blog offers. In other words, I traded something that was true and authentic and raw and at times really difficult for something that is glossy and disingenuous and easy.
The inexplicable abandonment of my writing becomes even more disconcerting because of the amount of unadulterated pleasure I derive from it.
The armchair psychologist in me wonders if I stopped writing as a form of emotional self-flagellation for enjoying it too much. It doesn't fit the mold, you see. I have been conditioned to be a doer. To work, to clean, to mother, to wife, to do whatever it is except something that is 100% just for me and no one else. Because my inner voice shouts in my ear reminding me that to do something just for me would be selfish and lazy and entitled and who wants to think of themselves in those ways, right? To do for myself would be so entirely different from the behavior that was modeled for me as a female and to reframe this thinking at times seems completely intractable.
But my thinking can and must be reframed. It is a new year and a new me, and I will dive into the 55 drafts, some dating back to 2015, that are waiting for me. Like a Gmail folder that needs cleaning out, most are blank posts that need to be deleted. Others, however, are more intriguing and worth revisiting with writing-prompt titles such as "The Claustrophia of Life" and "Everything Paleo 'Cept the Hair."
I will continue to work, to clean, to mother, and to wife. I will not do these things because I have been conditioned. but instead I will do them because I really dig my job and a tidy house and, of course, my kids and husband. But starting right now, with these words, I am reserving a piece of my life for me and for my writing and for whatever else brings me happiness.
I can't remember a specific reason as to why I stopped. I can blame the pandemic, but that would be a blatant falsehood given the sheer number of gluten-free cakes I baked and endless board game tournaments my husband and I played while in lockdown.
I can blame Instagram sort of. My IG posts have replaced my writing, but in a more "look at me, I'm happy and productive, aren't I, don't you see that?" way than the diary-like uncovering-topics-I-should-explore-in-therapy, pseudo-anonymity writing that my blog offers. In other words, I traded something that was true and authentic and raw and at times really difficult for something that is glossy and disingenuous and easy.
The inexplicable abandonment of my writing becomes even more disconcerting because of the amount of unadulterated pleasure I derive from it.
The armchair psychologist in me wonders if I stopped writing as a form of emotional self-flagellation for enjoying it too much. It doesn't fit the mold, you see. I have been conditioned to be a doer. To work, to clean, to mother, to wife, to do whatever it is except something that is 100% just for me and no one else. Because my inner voice shouts in my ear reminding me that to do something just for me would be selfish and lazy and entitled and who wants to think of themselves in those ways, right? To do for myself would be so entirely different from the behavior that was modeled for me as a female and to reframe this thinking at times seems completely intractable.
But my thinking can and must be reframed. It is a new year and a new me, and I will dive into the 55 drafts, some dating back to 2015, that are waiting for me. Like a Gmail folder that needs cleaning out, most are blank posts that need to be deleted. Others, however, are more intriguing and worth revisiting with writing-prompt titles such as "The Claustrophia of Life" and "Everything Paleo 'Cept the Hair."
I will continue to work, to clean, to mother, and to wife. I will not do these things because I have been conditioned. but instead I will do them because I really dig my job and a tidy house and, of course, my kids and husband. But starting right now, with these words, I am reserving a piece of my life for me and for my writing and for whatever else brings me happiness.
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