I’ve wanted to take up blogging again for a while, as it is a fairly casual form of writing that offers feedback, a way of marking progress, and a system of accountability. But the problem with blogging is you need to have something to say. And I don’t really feel I do.
I don’t mean that in a “I don’t think my opinions are valuable” kind of way. I mean that in a “I open my mouth and nothing comes out” way. If I, by some miracle, stumble upon a topic, my brain can never figure out a way to stay on it long enough to reach an end point. I lose steam. It’s hard to write out what is essentially a half-hearted shrug.
It isn’t as if the year hasn’t given me things to discuss. A quick recap of my year: I had to put my 21-year-old cat down, my mother had cancer surgery, and my father’s brother unexpectedly died. But I couldn’t find the drive to write about any of it: the hole created by the loss of my constant companion, the worry I felt about my mother or the relief I felt when everything went well, the confusion of my uncle’s death. I’ve recently discovered quite the collection of gray hairs that were not there at the beginning of 2018, and each one is a story. They just aren’t stories I have the energy to tell.
I used to have a LiveJournal, which I used religiously throughout high school and into my first attempt at college. While mortifying to go back and read through old entries, it is nice to have something concrete I can point to and go, “This is a Thing I have done.” I don’t really have that anymore. What little writing I do manage to accomplish, I almost always scrap and begin again. Fourteen folders full of starts and re-starts, and no endings. Whereas journal entries, they ended, they were posted, people commented. It was a nice system.
I think the difference between the me of the past and the me of today is that the me of the past didn’t really care that she didn’t have Something to say. It was enough to just say something. Past Me was still trying to figure out who she was. Writing it all down helped unpack it. It was unorganized and messy, but it was out in front of me (her? I’ve lost track of pronouns). So even though I didn’t know how the pieces fit together, I at least knew what ones I had to work with.
The Me of Today is also trying to figure out just who the hell I am, but at 30-something, I kind of assumed I would have that worked out by now. I don’t. I’m nowhere near approaching it. Which makes it difficult to know just what I want to say, because the idea of this blog was to be Me, but I have no idea who Me is, so I have no idea what this blog is.
Perhaps that could be the point of this blog: a continuation of that journal, of that exploration of just who the hell I am as a person. Figuring out what I want to put into the world, what I want to say and how I want to say it.
I suppose the first thing I’d like to say is: hello again.