So Many UNs

I’ve been blogging now for close to a year. And, surprisingly, my blog started to be read by more than I ever thought – indeed I’ve heard of people that I kindasortanotreally know that read my blog…and I think, Wow, I kinda write personal things on here (and how on earth did they even find my blog?). But then I also remember: my blog is public. It was my choice to put it on the worldwideweb.

I get my fair share of emails from people all over the country (and even world) who read my blog and want to thank me for the humor I bring even through devastating trials like suffering and trying to recover from an eating disorder – and those emails seriously, like, feed me. They keep me going. They make me think that even though I haven’t accomplished much in my life, at least I’m helping some people. And that's when I remember why I keep my blog public. For the self-esteem boost. No, I'm kidding. Kind of. I really do find a great sense of peace and purpose when I know that others feel inspired from reading moi.

I mean: college – been there, dropped out of that. On independence: I still need my mommy and hubby and therapist. On confidence: I ask Bran at least fourteen times a day if I look fat, or pretty, or if I did a good job warming up the soup we’re having for dinner. I’m not a domestic goddess. I hate to clean. I’m not a perfectionistic clean-freak like most typical anorexics are. I live in chaos. I am chaotic. Hell, I can write on un-lined paper! Whoa!!

I’m a complete failure when it comes to society’s standards. I don’t have a commanding, high-paying, high stress job. I don’t drive a beamer. Half the time my kid only bathes once a week. His hair is crispy. And crusty. And, on some days, mine is too. And still, I didn’t bathe him this morning. I didn’t bathe this morning either, to be frank. And gross. I use a blow-dryer or a curling iron maybe 3x a month. A month, people. The rest of the time it air dries and is in a nasty bun. People think I’m so put together. I have an awesome husband, a crazyadorablepsychotic kid, the whole shebang. And I’m not saying those things aren’t miracles and wonderful supersupercool things in my life, I’m just saying there’s more than meets the eye. There’s a lot more to me, and most of it isn’t really all that swell.

But I don’t often write about that.

Sometimes I wonder, when I’m deciding what I’d like to blog about on a particular day, what people want to read. Or don’t want to read. And obviously my blog is for me, and should be for me. I luuuuuuurve blogging. Sometimes I just lose sight of that.

I forget that some people want to hear the serious stuff, and some are just here to read when I’m funny or at least trying to be and just come off as moronic. And I can't please everyone and I know I just need to deal. And sometimes I’m funny even when I want to cry. And most of the time it helps. But sometimes it doesn’t, and in those times there’s nothing for me to do but take a benzo and bite my fingernails.

And then, to make matters worse, a favorite blogger of mine sent me an article and I read that my teen idol, my love, the face on the countless bookmarks I made and laminated as a teen…David Duchovny, my Agent Mulder, the man I named my car after…went into rehab for, for…A SEX ADDICTION. I almost laid an egg when I read the article, I kid you not. BAGOOOOOOCK! (Is that the sound a hen makes?) Totally shrieking out, people.

And this is okay. I judge not. It just makes me feel a bit uncomfy, is all.

So, this uneducated, unkempt, underqualified, unperfect, uncool, unsuccessful, unaccomplished person is just going to have to suffice. For you. For me. And for David Duchovny.

Food-related addictions, sex addictions, we all the same. Group hug!