And I did nothing about it.
Shame on me? Well, maybe….and maybe not.
I acknowledged it in my head, but on four previous blog anniversary dates (March 31st), I’ve always written something about it. What was different about this year? What is it about Year #5 that has placed this blog that I used to love, in the Bargain Bin section of my priorities????
Dr. Phil, who I am LOATHE to quote but in this case must, once said that we continue to do things, stay in bad relationships, stay in horrible jobs, allow ourselves to dwell in self-pity because we get something out of it. Such was the case with my blog. I was getting a massive amount of validation from my blog posts. I used to check it constantly: for comments; for hits, but now? Not so much. These days, I almost have to remind myself that I even have a blog.
I guess in the simplest of terms, I no longer need the validation. I’m gainfully employed in a job in which my work is rarely noticed and for some reason, that’s okay. There was a time when this kind of management radar obliviousness would have prompted me to call Dr. Kevorkian.
When I started this blog five years ago, I was out of work. I was in dire need of something to keep myself in a place where I could tolerate who and what I’d become; a middle-aged seemingly unhirable (is that a word??) woman, who was depressed, sad, lonely and oh so broke. I desperately wanted to like myself and could only like myself if others did. My self-esteem was shot and could return if gauged by others. I was vulnerable. My blog was a safe place in which I could be me, the real me (to a degree, anyway) but I could hide behind words and hyperbole. Even so, I would allow my online diary to avow only so much. But a few cunning, devious sorts were able to separate my well intended wheat facade from my bullshit chaff and they played me like a cheap zither.
But not anymore.
I think the key to all this, the answer to every question is sweet release and letting go and it’s when you do that that you find closure and in closure, there’s internal peace. Acceptance of what happened and why. That can only happen when you reach a place of self-awareness. And for me, that could only come when I became of woman of a certain age and a woman of a certain experiences. By that, I mean finally reaching a point of no return. I’ve finally fained the ability to let go and move forward. I say that because I’ve been able to hold on to the process of letting go for some time now. With no backtracking. It’s something akin to celebrating ten years sobriety.
I was able to sort out many things publicly and privately. It was good to experience the heart ache if for no other reason than it prompted healing. Like when farmers and ranchers engage in ‘prescribed burning” of their property. Fire rejuvenates. Ask any Forest Ranger. Forest fires are awful, but vital. They, like the little half-acre that Farmer Bill burns, off the freeway, can make all the difference in the world. Even those crazy ass wildfires in SoCal have their merits, aside from the massive destruction and deaths, of course.
Swailing and the heat it creates prompts germination.
Spies and CIA operatives get so-called burn notices when they’ve been disavowed for whatever reason. I think we have the ability to do that to our problems and all the things that ail us. We have to disavow all the negatives.
Even negative people; the ones who vex us so well.
All it takes to start a controlled burn is to experience several out of control ones. The kind that damages and destroys. Then and only then, can we experience new growth.
I’ve learned recently that my lack of blogging is an example of my own personal scorched earth policy: by doing nothing at all here, I’ve burned the memories; the objects, the weapons–even a few old enemies–in order to keep the old pains and emotional albatrosses inaccessible to the new me.
This blog has become an urn. A unceremonial one, but that’s all I need. Something just to hold the ashes temporarily.
Details of their scattering to be determined later.