I've written a blog post every day this week and deleted all but one of them.
I've written about the public breakdown I had after Knox's wheelchair collapsed in the middle of the street and no one offered to help me fix it. I've written about how some arsehole didn't hold the door open as he walked through it and it almost broke Knox's feet when the door slammed on him.
I wrote about blogging conferences and professional jealousies.
I wrote about tax season.
I just wrote a post about how the school phoned wanting my email so the principal could email me. How I have sat here for hours now, refreshing my email all the while imagining horrible scenarios involving my children and how I'm going to be forced to homeschool them like it or not. And still, NO EMAIL. The curiosity, it's killing me.
Everything I write, I delete.
I don't know how to press publish anymore.
It feels like everything worthy of being said is being said by others and being said better than I ever could.
I'm blog-blocking myself.
It's like I've forgotten how to blog honestly, the way I used to, because I'm paralysed by who will read it.
Years of being judged by my inlaws, my community, even some of my family, it's all scarred me to the point I don't know how to say what I want to say anymore.
Blogging comes with a price. You may not have to pay it immediately, but it's there. I've paid my price, had my pound of flesh cut from my body. I've forgotten how to blog bravely.
But I still want to.
I'm still here.
Blogging and deleting. Struggling to find the right way to write the words that I need to say. Bravely sharing big important truthes we will all be better for having read.
That's the problem.
I have no big important truth to share.
Not today anyways.
Oh wait. I have one truth to share:
Big dogs take big poops and I hate picking up poop.
Wait. That's not it.
My toe hair is so long it catches on my sheets and pulls a bit and it hurts. I don't want to be the woman who has to shave her toe hair. How feminine is that?
Sorry. That's not it either.
There is a dead skunk just on the other side of the road from my driveway and I really kind of want to poke at it with a stick.
That's just gross. I think there must be something wrong with me.
Oh, I know!
I LOVE going to the local car wash. It's one of those wand wash places where you blast the dirt off your car manually. I feel like a GOD when I am blasting my car clean. I feel productive. Strong. And slightly gritty because I haven't quite figured out the right ratio from car to wand distance. Blow back is a bitch. BUT SO FUN.
I should delete this post. It's random and uninteresting.
Wait. It's kind of like life. Nonsensical but with a lot of blow back.
Starts blog post about the therapeutic brilliance of personal blogging.
Deletes said post.
Meh. You can't hit a home run every time you swing at a ball. At least now you know why I don't publish more often. You're welcome.