Out of practice

I've let the blog go to seed a bit. I need to moderate some comments for viagra out of the posts from 2006, and when I went to type "blogger.com" into my web browser, I wrote "globber.com." I'm totally out of sync with the me that used to write this thing. I'm a mess, generally. I need to get my writer self back, I don't even know what voice to use any more.

So, like, my life changed pretty significantly last year. I moved to take care of my mother, and my jamming personal space was totally disrupted, so the ambiance I like to write in is all but gone. I also changed jobs, same company and all, but totally different job, where I'm now essentially a technical writer. I write all effing day, and I don't have the creative juices to write for myself anymore. It's totally soul crushing, this technical, sterile writing. I spend all day cracking my brain for new and interesting ways to describe benefit shortfalls nowadays, I just don't have the energy to talk about myself for more than a second.

But that's brought me to another reason for this drought: the fucking fact that I am writing a blog. Who writes blogs? Am I one of those people? I completely lack the skill of many mom-bloggers who can write about just about anything that happens to them and manage to make it sound interesting... Many bloggers have lives that sound enviable, in some way, or at least their online personas make it so. Urban, social, experimental, I dunno. Just enviable. No one envies me... I'm pitiable by most, a fact I resent more than any other, including the fact that our country tortured prisoners of war, or some kind of horrible truth you don't want to look at, like how fat you've gotten since high school, or that your favorite tee shirt is now see-through, or whatever.

But I hate, more than so many, many other more important things, bloggers who whine for a living. Not just bloggers, people. I'm totally not a whiner, by definition. So, that is not my blog.

And I can't make this blog a series of "how my son was injured by mental health professionals," no matter how badly my psyche wants me to take up that subject, again and again and again, because nothing's going to make my feelings on that subject better but time, maybe therapy (if only I could find a therapist I thought was smart enough for the discussion), and some serious congressional smackdown of the fuck-holes who invented pediatric bipolar while concurrently getting paid by the pharma industry to sell their products.

The Kid is his own story, and I am my own. I've been telling his through my own eyes for so long, I don't have a story of my own any more. Oh fuck, when did I become like one of those lazy bitches who'd show up crying on Oprah? Ick. I repulse myself.

Anyway, I really want to figure it all out. And I'm just enough a member of this generation that's not quite Gen X and not quite Gen Y, that I'm all for trying to figure it out on the internet, where I get input from random strangers, and dear friends, who know my address.

Bear with me. The next few posts are going to be rough til I figure out what I sound like again.