Blogging- It's Therapy and More

I kept a journal when I was 12 and 13 until my mother read it. Then I kept another when I was older until a boyfriend read it. Blogging is not journaling- not for me. I’m not telling my deepest darkest secrets here. Anyway- I have no more secrets left.

When I sat at my dad’s funeral and listened to all the people telling stories about him, I realized I didn’t know him at all. My Uncle Richard and I had a private moment and I asked him. “Who the hell were those people talking about?” I decided then that my son would know me. He would know about my politics, my loves, my hates, my broken hearts, my pride, my joy. He would know me so well that when people told stories at my funeral he would not be caught off guard and would laugh or cry, knowing with absolute certainty the story was true or false.

I bought a journal shortly after the funeral. I wrote in it maybe twice. Writing long hand is just not my thing. My brain works best sitting at a keyboard. It took me six more years to find my best method of communication.

I started blogging in November of 2008. Fortunately, for my reading friends I don’t blog about every little detail that crosses my brain. I blog about things that mean something to me. I still want my son to know who I am- though by now I think he knows me better than anyone else does.

The side effect I wasn’t expecting is that it helps me to think things through. If I write things down perhaps a few stresses will be relieved; if I just give it to the universe- or to you anyway. That was what my very first journal did for me too.

Most of us keep things in pockets. You have this pocket for your son, this pocket for your siblings, this pocket for your Uncle and Grandma and usually a big old pocket for your friends. I only have one pocket and I share all the contents within right here. There are things I will take to my grave, maybe my secrets, maybe yours- they will never end up on my blog.

When I die, my son won’t have to miss me so much. He will be able to pull up my blog and read my ramblings about nothing in particular and he will know I am there. He will laugh at my attempts at humor and he will be proud of my research abilities. Most of all, he’ll be glad his mom was an open book.