Posted in aimless rambling

Writing therapy

There’s something very scary about writing this kind of blog. It feels like I’m inviting you all to read my diary, and at times I wonder what on Earth I’m doing. But I don’t know any other way to write.

It is therapeutic, lining up all of these thoughts and feelings, shaping them into some sort of order, making them fit for public consumption. It’s as if, by preparing them for an audience, I’m also putting them into order in the recesses of my brain.

I had a notification from WordPress today. It’s been 8 years since I registered this blog. I haven’t used it for the last 4 years, and the last time I wrote regularly was when we moved down here. I originally started blogging while I was at home with the children when they were small.

It seems that writing like this is a way for me to process change, or find some sort of meaning in my day. When I’m busy with the routines of life; work, school, home, chores; I don’t feel the urge to write. When things get unsettled, I do.

This is also a deliberate attempt to stay connected to the people in my life now. Since we made the decision to move so far away, I’ve found myself on Facebook more1, sharing more, linking with more people. This is an extension of that. 

When we go, the ties that bind us to friends here will slip. The minutiae of our daily life will go on, unobserved by you. The things that we would laugh, moan or drink over will be done without you. Perhaps by sharing things here, we will stay connected.

But it’s also quite scary, presenting myself like this. 

Some of you are writers (actual, proper, get-paid-for-writing writers).

Note to self: remember to spell check. Twice. Then edit.

Some of you are friends, so I hope you will read with a generous spirit.

Some will not be bothered by my success or failure, merely curious.

And one of you might be my nutty cyber-stalker, willing me to say the wrong thing, storing up imaginary grievances as ammunition for future battles.

I can’t control that. Once a post is published, it is out of my control. 

Perhaps there is something therapeutic about that, too.

 
 
 


1 Which is unsettling, given that I think Facebook is evil and is trying to own my soul. Or something along those lines.

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Author:

Kiwi, just returned home after 17 years in the UK. Feminist, wife, mother to 2 daughters. Strongly opinionated and very vocal. I'm wicked through and through.

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