becoming me

I’m being followed…online. oh, I’m sure I always was – by dad at least, but I conveniently never acknowledged that. now it’s parents from the child care center I worked at, angry at me and unable to let go just yet. I deleted my xanga journal because of their pressure (mostly my bosses, who were feeling pressured by them, likely). realizing my mistake, I opened a new xanga. the first entry explained to my school friends why I had deleted it. that was a mistake – the angry parents found me again and found that entry that mentioned them.

so I’ve also been backing up my entries here and deleting them. I’ve had this journal for probably around 8 years – I used to so save them and delete them from the internet every few months. I didn’t want to have too much of it online at a time, in case someone I didn’t want found it – such as my dad. but I guess around the time I went to college, or in those first two years, I stopped deleting. so in the past 3 or so years, I’ve accumulated over 600 entries here. phew. that’s a lot to suddenly start deleting. I deleted a lot today – I tried to go quickly and not read the titles. because if I read the titles, then I would inevitably read the entries and get incredibly sidetracked. but it’s impossible not to stop and read them. I love to go back through the memories, marvel at where I have been and how eloquently I could write at times. the way I saw the world! sometimes, I don’t even recognize that it’s me. I glanced at one entry where I quoted myself on something I had written 4 years before. as I read that quoted paragraph, I thought, “wow, who was this person? she had such great insights about a world just like mine!” then I recognized that it had been my own writing.

ever since the day I was fired, and my boss advised that I not write anything down, I’ve been thinking hard about what writing means to me. at first I tried to listen to him, tried to change what and where I wrote, tried to acknowledge that what I had written had hurt others – and that should not happen again. while I see his point, and I KNOW I made some huge mistakes with my writing, I also know through my heart that I was made to write. I still don’t know WHAT I was made to write – I’m not so good at poetry, and fiction coming from my head is never more than fake. I have only my own life, and myself. I have these journals, all of these words about my own life, that span years. I have a feeling that I can make something of them someday. all I know is that I’m supposed to just keep writing. just keep writing for now, and someday the purpose will come of it.

I hate to take these entries offline. they are so much more convenient on this website, where I can just look at a calendar and pick an entry from it. when I save them to my computer, the entries all collect on a single notepad document – it’s much more difficult to find and read a specific entry. but oh well. I can’t have a repeat of what’s happening to me right now, much less a continuation. this will be much safer for me, especially given that I can’t bring myself to stop writing online just yet.