I've noticed a trend among blogs in my reader lately. Several of the writers have had fairly long periods of low posting, followed by a confession of a Thing that has kept them from posting because the Thing - and being unable to write about it - has sapped their will to blog.
I think that's what's happened to me, too. (Either that, or I'm horribly, irredeemably suggestible.) You see, I have a Thing. Unfortunately for me, it's not really fit for public consumption at this point. It needs to stay between me, my therapist, and the other(s) involved.
And it's sort of killing me.
I process by writing. I can process by talking - and will do it on occasion - but I'm generally too uncomfortable to open up to even my closest friends about shit going on in my life. It all relates back to my childhood and my fear of vulnerability and blah, blah, blah. I'm aware of the problem and I'm working on it. But until I get that figured out, I need to write. Journals have never done it for me. Something about the pen-to-paper set-up doesn't work. Typing - spilling my heart into the abyss hidden within my computer - does work for me. The problem manifested itself when I lost easy, non-work access to typing around the same time that I developed the Thing. It created a bit of a perfect storm of blog silence.
What I'm attempting to say is I'm trying. I'm trying to make myself fill these pages more often. I'm not succeeding, but I'm trying. Many of my brain-composed blog posts relate to the Thing, so they can't actually be written and published. Since I can't write about what's on my heart, I choose not to write at all. I've recently made some realizations about the Thing and what I need to do to fix it, which I'm hoping will help me get my voice back. Until then, I'll keep trying.
But, if I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for the next installment.