My apologies to anyone who still has me in their Reader stream. I know that as I update old posts, they appear as if new, which, judging from emails, is confusing and weird. There is no way around it, as far as I can tell (other than marking the whole thing Private, which I don’t want to do – see below). I wish there were, since it’s going to take me months to do one by one.
So the announcement is this: I am password protecting the whole shebang. I am happy to hand you the password – just shoot me an email. But I am doing it.
I’ve thought about it for about six months now, longer if I think about all the times it’s crossed my mind in the last three years. Each time I read another article about the implications and consequences of the things people can find out about us online, I ponder it.
I want to be clear to both my former readers and any future people searching me out – I am not embarrassed by my history of depression or my infertility or my fibromyalgia or any of it. There are other places online where you can read a synopsis of what this blog covers, so it’s not that I want to erase it. I believe that the power of our individual stories is huge and important and I still intend to have a second career as a writer. I want this blog to still exist for anyone who wants to read it, whether they are in the murky lands of depression/loss/infertility or perkily reading about the process of IUI because they are just starting out. I want to keep an About page out there that clearly states that this blog is here and you can ask for access and I will grant it.
But I am also trying to be smart and proactive. I am in the middle of a good run at work, several years of extremely hard work that are paying off as I gain more responsibilities and opportunities. While I see nothing wrong with writing about my cervical mucus on the Internet, I really do have to be grown-up enough to admit that other people may question my judgement on that. And I don’t want my mucus to hold me back from opportunities that may arise.
One other part to the password thing – I am hoping it might make me write again. I cannot promise it – the bulk of the writer’s block really does come from lack of time, as I work all day, then get the kid fed and to bed, then usually work some more. But there is a piece of it that comes from discomfort. How long do I get to tell potentially embarrassing stories about my little boy? I certainly can’t write openly about our big boy, or my feelings about work, and it just doesn’t feel the same to rant about my husband knowing how easily our acquaintances can come across it. Hell, I google half the parents in my kid’s class just for fun.
And yet my husband is BEGGING me to rant, to write, to get it out so that I don’t explode. We all know it’s either this or therapy. And we can’t afford the therapy!
So here we go. I long ago came to terms with the fact that this blog has gone as far as it’s going to go in the blogosphere, and that it won’t be my vehicle to fame. I came to terms with the fact that, for now, this blog is my book (and thank you to the reader who left that comment long ago – it has always stayed with me). Now I need to come to terms with the fact that writing can still occur, must occur, and can still soothe and assist.