Insert Profound Title Here

I guess it’s finally time to try out this whole blog thing, isn’t it?  I do hope you’ll forgive my apprehension. I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with every kind of social media I tried.

Livejournal was the first.  I came to it a little later than my other friends, urged toward it because I missed my college roommates after I moved back home.  The entire idea felt ghastly to me. I had already kept a written journal for years, but that was just for me, and the idea of anybody else reading my inner thoughts (or wanting to read them) was absurd.

I kept my account set to “friends only” but whenever one of those friends upset me, I found myself posting instead on a secret, second account where I could air my ugly feelings, my tiptoes into depression, my perceived weaknesses.  Inevitably, I’d get angry with myself for these thoughts, delete the second account, and then start a third. So on and so forth. The account for friends to see, and then the safer one, the real one, for an even smaller group of friends. The ones I felt wouldn’t judge me.

Just leave those ugly thoughts behind and it’ll be like they never happened!  Be positive! Encouraging! Be a good person!

I grew tired of myself over the years in a way that private, handwritten journaling had never caused. As my entries became less genuine, they also became less frequent.

In the end, I made one last post to my main account.  Weeks after my older brother’s death, I posted something I dramatically titled “Requiem.”  I had barely begun to dissect my thoughts and emotions surrounding his death, but this was a necessary acknowledgement of it, a bit of prose that barely scratched the surface of pain.  Almost everybody I had connected with on Livejournal had already moved to Facebook, so the words were left mostly unseen. One longtime Harry Potter fandom friend commented thoughtfully with sympathy, for which I was grateful.  Otherwise, the post laid there with a sense of finality. The period at the end of a long and rambling sentence.

That was 2007.  I never went back, at least not until 2012, when I finally made the move to delete my account, as though, once again, it meant I could leave all of that behind me. Keep looking ahead.

I regret it.  And I find myself missing Livejournal all the time.  I miss the posts that I was so eager to destroy. A 20-something’s confused navigation of the world.  The insecurities and upsets. These are still a part of who I am. Was it really so wrong to indulge in a little navel-gazing?

I feel awkward now, writing this.  You see, because it’s a blog, and it feels like a public Livejournal account.  Too exposed. People judging my words. Words that aren’t good enough. Words that could be better if I wasn’t so afraid of sucking.  Maybe I’m trying too hard to be profound. Maybe that’s just my insecurity talking again.

But if I want to be considered a *real* writer, I need a blog, right?  Ugh. I’ve been writing since I was a child in elementary school. I don’t need the validation.  Or maybe I do.

The truth is, I messed some things up in my 20s.  I ended friendships that I should have kept while nurturing others that didn’t deserve it. I let my insecure inner voice, and the voices of people who didn’t have faith in me, to drown out the cries of my hopes and desires.  I gave up on my lifetime longing to write. To *really* write. I started to think of this desire as something to be shameful of. After all, doesn’t everybody want to be a writer? What made me think I was special?

I’m not.  And that’s okay.  But I *am* a writer.  Not “aspiring.” Not “hopeful.”  Simply unpublished. And it might be a battle, but I won’t give up on myself this time.

 

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