A thousand years ago, or so it seems, when I started this blog I had no idea what to call it. At the time, I was living on a farm in the picturesque Noosa Hinterland, at the end of a very long drive way, on top of a hill. God I miss that place. It’s the longest I have ever lived anywhere.
I started blogging originally as a way to record what was going on in my life. The interesting conundrum of having a foot in two different parenting camps - a baby, and tweens, that became a toddler and teens. The break down of my marriage to my youngest child’s father. The recognition that there was more going on in my fractured brain then PTSD.
As time passed, and I moved, my blog name became synomous with my life. Like a hill, there has been ascents, descents and good old plateaus. On reflection, probably not a lot of plateaus, and an awful lot of ups and downs. And my blog morphed into a place where I talked about child sexual abuse, attempted to venture into the “commercial” blogging arena - unsuccessfully, shared words that formed poems that captured my moods and feelings, talked about breast cancer.... and then I stopped. I didn’t stop writing. I just stopped pressing publish.
I felt too raw, too full of emotional turmoil, too loud, too honest. Too much.
I shared my blog with someone new recently. It prompted me to read through my words and I was surprised at how well they read, how elequont they were. In a beautiful moment of synchronicity, the next day I was invited to a group that had been formed on Facebook, “The ‘Old School Blogger’s’ Reunion page, full of people that I had met and conversed with online and in real life. Some are still blogging, some of let it go. As I read through the conversation and recognised names, names of people that had been a very real part of my life, I realised that I need to start writing again, and pressing publish.
So here I am. Renewed, reinvigorated and real.
And if I’m too much, then too bad.
I started blogging originally as a way to record what was going on in my life. The interesting conundrum of having a foot in two different parenting camps - a baby, and tweens, that became a toddler and teens. The break down of my marriage to my youngest child’s father. The recognition that there was more going on in my fractured brain then PTSD.
As time passed, and I moved, my blog name became synomous with my life. Like a hill, there has been ascents, descents and good old plateaus. On reflection, probably not a lot of plateaus, and an awful lot of ups and downs. And my blog morphed into a place where I talked about child sexual abuse, attempted to venture into the “commercial” blogging arena - unsuccessfully, shared words that formed poems that captured my moods and feelings, talked about breast cancer.... and then I stopped. I didn’t stop writing. I just stopped pressing publish.
I felt too raw, too full of emotional turmoil, too loud, too honest. Too much.
I shared my blog with someone new recently. It prompted me to read through my words and I was surprised at how well they read, how elequont they were. In a beautiful moment of synchronicity, the next day I was invited to a group that had been formed on Facebook, “The ‘Old School Blogger’s’ Reunion page, full of people that I had met and conversed with online and in real life. Some are still blogging, some of let it go. As I read through the conversation and recognised names, names of people that had been a very real part of my life, I realised that I need to start writing again, and pressing publish.
So here I am. Renewed, reinvigorated and real.
And if I’m too much, then too bad.
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