Took this at Disneyland a few weeks ago.
Been working, got a tattoo, been sick, had my son graduate high school, both girls have jobs. There's lots of stuff to say, but I still struggle with why it should be said here. Is it valuable to vomit my life into the void in order to see who can identify what I had to live that life - is this a piece of corn? a piece of momhood? meatcake? If I tell a new story about heart disease or sleep apnea or even emptying nest syndrome, is there anyone out there who still looks to blogs for answers or comfort or camaraderie? What's the point to relating another tale of illness or inevitability or impotence?
On the other hand, it's always been through the act of regurgitation here that I figured all the best stuff out. Also, I can't discount the value of being able to help people through the relating of my own experience.
Then again, there's nothing all that interesting about me of late.
Of course, there doesn't need to be. It's the garden variety sameness of experience that makes telling the tale so valuable.
I see a new surgeon, tomorrow. I'm hoping this one will have some better answers to my dilemma. What dilemma? Does it matter? That I want answers is universal to any problem, right? I don't feel like talking about it, tonight. Grab a pen and some paper and ask your kids to give you some nouns and verbs and adjectives - make it a game, a MadLib. Fill in the blanks with any old words or problems you want, because the specifics don't matter that much for right now. What matters is whether or not my talking about it has any value. Like a piece of candy rejected because it doesn't taste good enough to justify the calories, I'm not sure there is enough help to be found in talking that it would off set the involvement with the net that talking entails.
