The few friends and associates who know of the existence of this journal (but don't read it) don't understand at all why I'm doing it. I get comments like "why would you want strangers to know so much about you?", or "I thought blogs were only for kids", or "Can't you and your daughter keep in touch by email? Why blog?" The fewer yet who have actually read much of it are shocked by the degree of self-revelation and intimacy. Believe it or not, most people find me a very private person. Quiet.
I've always had trouble answering, because I hadn't thought much about it - I just did it, and liked it, so I kept doing it. All I knew for sure was that I was doing it for me, and me alone.
A few days ago I got a wonderful note from a woman who had read the memorial to Jay, and she also asked why. I hope she will not be offended by my anonymously quoting part of her note, and my response to her question. It explains as well as possible as much as I know right now about "why". (And hey, you send something to someone with a blog, you're likely to get "blogged". It's a disease.)
Excerpt from her note:
I took the liberty to read your blog as I was so intrigued by your ability to express your
inner most feelings so eloquently yet so simply. I've never really read any blogs before,
but somehow I feel changed by reading yours. What prompted you to begin such a
public baring of your soul?
My reply:
The first year after Jay died, 2002, I stayed very busy. I joined the local volunteer fire department, got the EMS training, and rode the ambulance for a while. Very consuming. Then in 2003 I crashed emotionally. Someone else described it very well. She had gone through all the stages of mourning, and she thought she was ok, then one day she found herself thinking, "Ok, he's been gone long enough now. It's time for him to come home."
It was very hard to accept that Jay would not be coming home, no matter how long I waited.
About the time I started the blog, I figured it was time to dig my way out. I had remained active throughout, got involved with the local dance community and Mensa, volunteer work here and there, but no one realized how depressed I was, probably not even me, and no one really wanted to hear about it anyway, even if I knew what to say. [The Company] had purged the Mid-Hudson Valley workforce back in the 90s (fired 11,000 one infamous April Fool's Day), so all my old friends were scattered all over the US. I had no one to talk to. The cat wouldn't listen. I tried talking to myself, but I went around in circles. So I talked to the blog.
I long ago discovered that writing something forced me to organize my thoughts, and writing it for someone else forced me to be honest. Through writing, I could get past one thing and on to the next. Once it is fully explored and written out, I can leave it and move on.
A private diary doesn't do it. I lie to a diary. I lie to myself.
Email to my daughter or an old friend wouldn't do it. It would be just too much to put on someone else. I didn't want to bother people.
The blog is perfect.
So instead of inviting people to my dining table and offering them a tasteless casserole, I have set up a card table on the street, and anyone can take a taste, or not. And it doesn't matter whether they like it or not. The main thing is, I cooked the dish.
That's progress.
That's why the blog. Someday maybe I'll be happy, and then someday maybe I'll stop.
~~Silk
Note - Post NO COMMENTS to this entry, please. Email only, if you must. I would really appreciate that. After reading this, perhaps you will understand better why I don't really want comments. They confuse me. Thank you.
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