I've been on Facebook a lot lately and it's fabulous to be in regular touch with my old friends, with my family, with friends from a long time listserv. It got me through a long hard summer.
But it also has it drawbacks in that purely BECAUSE my daughters and others read it there are things I can't rant about.
I can't rant about my niece's upcoming wedding(!) because my niece is my friend there and so are several of my beloved in-laws. For that same reason I can't rant about the Man in some ways there, even though he himself barely GETS Facebook.
I can't rant about how my daughters drive me crazy because though they KNOW that they drive me crazy, I can't put it up there for the world to see, where people really do know who they are.
And there are some things about me and my feelings that I just can't put up there. Like the fact that I have been having all kinds of weird symptoms that I expect are a combo of grief, stress and menopause and that I e-mailed my doctor yesterday and he has been kind enough to give me a new prescription for the Xanax I haven't taken in a good 4 years.
It struck me this morning that this blog is my diary. Oh, I'll rant about politics or patrons or anything else that irks me here, but this is the place where I can BE ME and let loose on some of my pain.
It doesn't matter a damn if anyone reads it--by now the few who I expect might read it know me in real life and/or Facebook anyway.
Though since I can't write without being self critical, I will continue to write as if 10 zillion people WERE reading this.
The act of writing this, of having this place to express the good and the bad and keeping a record of the good times and the bad times is what matters.
And so I am back.