Day 3 — Something you need to forgive yourself for.
Now I remember why I stopped half way through this the last time. All this introspection and self doubt gets difficult to wade through. Sigh.
I need to forgive myself for writing this blog. Absolutely. I have a million reasons to delete the whole thing and retreat into my long-lost anonymity. Yet I don’t. It’s a verbal map to the hardest times in my life, and also a few of the spiciest. When I’m rock-bottom devastated, I don’t write, so thankfully the worst moments have faded away instead.
I started writing in 2009, in the midst of my live-in boyfriend moving out. I wanted a ring and a baby and he wanted to smoke pot and avoid getting a real job. I’d burned 7 years waiting for “someday” and was FED UP. He liked to consider himself a writer, and mocked me for my “little journal”. I’d worked so hard to build a real life with him, and didn’t know what to do with all the broken pieces I was left holding after he left with me to clean the whole mess up by myself.
I was lost. So lost. He’d eaten away at my self esteem for so long that all I knew how to do was apologize for everything. My sister picked me up, dusted me off, painted some makeup on my shell-shocked face, and took me out.
What happens when an emotionally destroyed woman adds alcohol and bad choices to the mix?
What ever possessed me to write about it, I’ll never know… but it’s all here in black and white for the world to snack on. I knew that going in, but I never dreamed people would give a single shit. I never wrote a single word in hopes of it being read.
As luck would have it, I must have pissed in the wrong bowl of cornflakes, because I woke up to a Facebook group made with the intention of sending the link to my blog out to everyone in creation. Decades of classmates of mine were logging on and the stats shot through the roof by lunch. I quietly drank in the dark and prayed for spontaneous combustion.
Something incredible happened as a result.
Nobody died. Not even after reading about how much I love a good blowjob. People started to come up to me and tell me they loved it, something I never saw coming. I learned to embrace my scandal and accept petty judgments for what they were. I learned to breathe through what I thought would kill me. My exes read it. Their wives read it. Hell, that lunatic from Puerto Rico STILL reads it.
So maybe I should just delete the whole damn thing and start fresh.
Or forgive myself for being so damn wordy.