This is my 200th post. I had been writting this epic, verbose diatribe about who I was when I started blogging, where I was, how much has changed. I’d been working on it for 3 months. And the further I got into it, the more I didn’t like it. The more I read and reread it, the more I hated the words on the page.
Which is huge because I’ve never hated anything I’ve ever written.
I hid it under my bed, between a pile of clothes that don’t fit anymore and an old box. In a fit of late night cleaning a couple days ago, I pulled it out and reread it.
And it made me cry.
I laid there for the better part of an hour, letting my tears fall into my puppy’s fur while she whimpered and nuzzled my neck, feeling my face grow hot under the silent tracks etched in salt. I had no words for me at that moment.
I could wax philisophical for chapters about who I used to be, compare her to who I am now. I could write a million poetic paragraphs about who I am to become, but I just don’t want to. I just wanna become already.
When I’m gone, I’d like to be remembered as someone relevant. Someone who did something, said something, accomplished something, wrote something that made someone else feel like they could go somewhere they’d never gone, do something they’ve never done, be someone they’ve never been before. I’d like to think that one day, someone will stumble across my little blog and read something that makes them get in their car, open their sunroof and turn the music up. Something that made them smile at a stranger, or laugh out loud at the most inappropriate time.
But right now, I’m not that person. And I don’t know why. I’m not writing and I don’t know why. I’m not sleeping and I’m cleaning and I’m angry and irritable and anti-social.
And I’m tired yall.
Two years ago when I started blogging, I wanted to challenge myself to do something decidedly uncharacteristic of me; to talk. To share my life, the everyday intimate details of my entire experience. To teach myself to be brave enough to be bare on a stage for the world to see. And I did. Maybe not all the time, but I did. At least I’d like to think so.
For some reason now though, I don’t feel inclined to talk. Or rather, I don’t feel prompted to do so. I’ve curled into myself, tired and world weary, and I think I wanna just be still for awhile. I see myself turning into someone I don’t recognize, someone I don’t think I like too much. And I don’t want to share that.
So I think I’ll be gone for awhile. And I felt that I owed you, my family here in blogland, at least a semi-intelligent reason as to why. I might not be gone forever. I’m not sure yet. Maybe this is the last thing that happens when you run out of paper. Maybe you’ll check back here one day, and it’ll all be gone, this entire documentation of a life as though it never existed. Maybe you’ll read a friend’s friend’s blog and it’ll sound like me, and you’ll wonder if I’ve found a new home in this annonymous landscape.
But for now, I leave you to wander. Thank you for a thousand kind words, a million revelations. Thank you for making me feel I could go somewhere I’d never gone, do something I’ve never done, be someone I’ve never been before. Thanks for making me get in my car, open my sunroof and turn the music up. For helping me become the me that can smile at a stranger, or laugh out loud at the most inappropriate time. I owe you that, at the very least. At the very, very least. You’ve shown me what it’s like to be intimate, to be witty, to be fearless, to be vulnerable. Plus, you’re cheaper than therapy. And for some reason beyond my explanation, I love each and every one of you. I’ll probably still be stalking your blogs of course. But maybe I’ll be the quiet girl in the back of the class you don’t notice. But I’ll be there. You’ll feel me.
But for now, I go elsewhere. And I’m going alone. But oh, how I’ll miss you.
Let us hope that if there is #201, that it is drastically different, lighter, happier than the last couple posts of late. Here’s hoping.
Until then, this isn’t goodbye, just goodnight.