I wonder

I wonder if I were to turn off the comments, if I could then convince myself that people are actually reading my blog, but nobody is commenting because they can't. Whereas now, I think nobody comments because they don't read it. Is anybody actually reading it? Am I doing it for me, or you? I guess a little of both. Some feedback would be nice. Otherwise, I might as well do it the old fashioned way, get out pen and notebook and write down something witty that nobody else will ever read. My eyes only. When I was eleven, shortly after my brother died, my mom took it upon herself to read my diary. I was mortified. Angry, hurt, frustrated. Not only because she had read it, but because of what it said. I would never have actually done it, but after my brother's suicide, I spent some time thinking about suicide. I contemplated it. To myself, or so I thought. She sat me down to talk about it. My mother blew the whole thing out of proportion and thought I was suicidal. Nope. I wasn't drinking, taking drugs, dressing wierd, hanging with the wrong crowd. Nothing. My brother had just hung himself in a tree and I had found him there. I was dealing with death the way a pre-teenager would. I went to a private Baptist school and my mother picked me up from school every day, how much trouble could I get into? But from her perspective, she was completely in the right doing what she did. Boy, was I angry. I felt I couldn't trust her. I never wrote in a diary again. I am a writer. I write for me. I would still write, but not in one spot, only bits and pieces here and there, hidden in my purse or other places. When I got a computer, I would write and delete, never printing anything. I became paranoid about someone finding something I had written. I had a lot of secrets then. Not anymore. There are years of my life that I would like to be able to look back on and read my thoughts, but they are gone. They were not saved, to be read and re-read later. They were erased.

When I was about twenty years old, I spent some time going to see a MFCC. I went to see the counselor my boss knew. He wanted me to lose weight and thought that counseling would help. He paid for half the sessions. Actually, the woman was just getting her certification and needed her final hours. Well, I knew that I should have seen someone with more experience when she sat there with her mouth open when I told her all the things I had been through. I have some interesting stories. After going there for a while, and spending a lot of money, I decided to get a notebook and write it all down instead of paying $60 per hour (I paid $30) to tell her a bunch of stuff she didn't really want to know about anyway. At least it would not cost as much. So, even though I no longer lived at home, I would write and hide it. So nobody would find it. I was a closet writer. Not anymore. I write here.

I find it easier to express my thoughts in writing than in speech. I always think of something else to say when I speak, only it is always after the fact. When you write, you can fix it or change it. It's not out there and gone forever.

So, feel free to comment if you would like. I will just pretend that all you people are reading and for one reason or another don't want to write things down. Your secret is safe with me.