I stopped writing

I stopped writing because I felt like I couldn't say anything. Because anything I might say could be inaccurate. I couldn't express myself because all of the words on the page had gone flat and two-dimensional.

I told myself I stopped writing because I didn't have time.

Or because I didn't like it anymore. Or because I did too much of it somewhere else.

But really, I stopped writing because I was angry.

I stopped writing because I was exhausted. Overwhelmed.

I stopped writing because I was so tightly wound that I was afraid the words would unstring me and and pull me apart.

I stopped writing because I was hurt and didn't want to keep licking the wound.

I told myself I stopped writing because my words didn't matter.

I stopped writing because it felt false.

Lately I have been writing, quietly, because I have to write. I write as if I am hiding it from myself. Putting words on paper that act as the proof of my life.

I stopped writing because I was scared my marriage was falling apart.

I stopped writing because the irresponsibility of my past had caught up to me in the form of an STD. Fuck, all those years, a clean slate. Fuck. It's non-lethal. It's uncurable, but drug-treatable. Still devastating. And I wanted people to know, because one-fourth of the population is in the same boat. But no one's talking about it. I wanted people to know so that I didn't feel so crushingly alone and trapped.

I stopped writing because all I wanted to do was tell the truth, and I didn't know where to begin.

I stopped writing because I really did totally lose my shit near the end of my dissertation. And I stayed up late at night, unable to sleep, afraid that I wasn't coming back. That I had been permanently damaged the whole process. That I had bent my brain in a way that it just wouldn't bounce back from.

I stopped writing because I was writing my dissertation. Which turned out to be a piece of crap. Nonetheless, it was a dissertation.

I stopped writing because I was disappointed in myself as a mother. And felt like a liar for writing about my son through a veil of niceties and sweetness while leaving out all of the pain. And shame. And guilt. And blame.

We have so much guilt around motherhood. How did you birth? Where did you birth? What kind of diapers to use?

How do you feed? How did you feed? How long did you feed? What? You had an alcoholic drink? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

You co-sleep? Did you sleep train yet? Is your baby sleeping? All night long?

"All you need to do is..."

Is your baby walking? Talking? Saying 27.93% more words, up from last week? What do you mean you don't know if everything he says is a word?

Oh, he's still using a binky? Oh, she's not potty-trained yet? Oh, he still sleeps in your bed? Oh, you let him sleep, all alone, in another room? Oh, she can't read yet? Doesn't even know her A, B, C's? Oh, sucks her thumb? Oh, he won't eat much in one sitting? Isn't that wasteful? Oh, he won't pick up his toys? Why isn't he more obedient?

"All you need to do is..."

That dark cloud of guilt and failure and an overwhelming feeling that any grace you have ever possessed has vanished.


I stopped writing because I love my son so much that I felt like I was betraying him if I didn't include all of the shit. And because I couldn't find the words to do my love for him justice, in all its glory and humor, and horror. There was so much happiness and magick and so many snapshot memory moments. And so much pride that we are a family. But those words didn't come. Yet, for all the shit I could find plenty of words.

I thought there was something wrong with me. Writing about my child made me hate myself. So I stopped trying. And tried to just love him.

Admitting I would never be the mother I thought I ought to be freed me to be the mother I am meant to be. Allowing someone skilled, someone fantastic, to care for my child 20 to 30 hours a week freed me to be the mother I want to be, rather than the mother I thought I should be, and was angry to be.


It became easier when I worked harder to keep the shoulds and oughts and musts as far away from us as possible. That heavy dark cloud of mommy shame and mommy guilt and the lack of grace fell away.

I also stopped writing because I was disappointed in myself as a student. As an academic. Like so many other 30-or-40-ish-year-olds I know, I couldn't bear to ask myself the question, "what would I be if I had worked harder when I had the chance? If I had taken advantage of time instead of it taking advantage of me?" I couldn't bear to ask the question, but I couldn't ignore it either. But one thing I certainly couldn't do was write about it. I still don't think I can write about it. Yet.

I stopped writing because I love my mother and am tremendously indebted to her, but I simultaneously resent her, and am frustrated by her. But she can't ever know that. And she was reading my blog, so I couldn't ever say it.

I stopped writing.

But now I have another blog. Because I have to write.

Sometimes, in the real world, you have to move one city to another to divorce yourself from a bunch of unnecessary bullshit in your life. Or, to take advantage of new opportunities. The new place, your new town, is a blank slate. A new life. A chance to reinvent yourself. Like a new lover. A chance to reify yourself. See yourself from the outside.

We moved to North Dakota seven months ago. I could see myself calling it home from the day we got here. There is something about it that totally gels with me, and I can't completely describe it. Arizona is home. But short of Arizona, there seem to be few places I could come to think of that way. That feeling of belonging. Of home. If I can't be in Arizona, I'd like to be here.

I've had the blank slate, the new town, and new life, physically, because of this move from AZ to Nodak.

And so it's fitting that my blog house, my blog space, needs a new life. Needs change.

It seems that there are several of us in the last year or so who have moved (or are planning to move) to new blog abodes. It carries a strange excitement with it. It's one of those things that shouldn't matter, as all of this cyberspace is created out of nothingness, really. Then again, I guess EVERYTHING comes from nothingness. I'd been thinking about creating a different blog for a long time when a few of my favorite bloghers announced they were moving into other cyberneighborblogs. I already felt that the Cognosco blog no longer suited me, so I figured I might as well get some new web digs too. And they can't ever foreclose on met like in real life! There's no credit check required. I just pick a new space. Sweet.

Feel free to direct others who you think would enjoy it. I just had to find a new space that feels more like me that just won't get mentioned to some of the folks in my life.

Here I am. I've missed you.