This is the first blog in which I have managed to write more than a few posts.
I love the idea of a blog in the same way that I loved the idea of writing a diary when I was a teenager. My room was littered with notebooks with, at most, two entries and I could never work out how to enthuse myself to write more often. Because although I found it cathartic to write down my teenage angst, tell an “imaginary friend” what my thoughts, fears, loves and gripes were, I could not sustain it for more than a couple of entries. I had ideas of what I wanted to write, they would wander into my mind at impossible moments such as the middle of a Chemistry Practical or a play rehearsal, times when I could do nothing about them, and then slip noislessly away when I approached a notebook. The brain was willing but the mind was weak.
I also mourn my missing diaries in ways that I had not imagined would be the case! I would love to be able to remind myself of past events and the overthinking created by them. I can remember Helen Richards kissing me in the tent in my garden, but not my thoughts afterwards or the events leading up to it! That is a nice memory. More are not so nice! Now, I am pretty certain lots of nice things happened but my memory banks only remember the embarrassing, or worse. So I wish that now, 30 to 40 years later, I could read about the every day nice, character forming memories that my brain has deemed meaningless enough to jettison to make space for other, equally immemorable trivia.
So why, now, am I finding the diary writing habits so long locked away? It is not that I have the time! Time is the one thing I do not I am extremely short of; I am a manager, a counsellor and a parent of an elite athlete who drives for 40,000 miles per year transporting said athlete. It is not that I have a new thing in the forefront of my mind that is overpowering all of my thoughts and forcing me to put it down on (virtual) paper, I have been struggling with the transgender question for 6 years and have started this blog twice before!
It is simpler than that. I have made a friend, a friend who, I know, is reading this. A friend has trusted me with their flaws and troubles and is shouldering some of mine! It turns out that writing to my diary, or to my secret/invisible friend does not satisfy my need at all, I am not able to write into the ether. It would appear that I need to know that somebody will read what I have written, even if it is only one. I am not sure what the difference is between that and a letter. But for now, I am happy because, for whatever reason, I am writing and it is helping!