What a sabbatical.
I checked. My last blog was posted on September 19. Let me explain why.
This blog was designed for me to have some place to vent (basically bitch) about whatever got under my skin at any given time.
Enter the final months of the 2016 Presidential Race campaigning and social media.
Holy *. For the first time since I actively began using Facebook and Twitter, the amount of vitriol and hate mongering reached epic proportions.
A little background: I grew up in a house where anger & arguing were like taking a breath. It went hand-in-hand. “Fool!” “Idiot!” “Ignoramus!” “Stupid!” All words I heard uttered on a constant basis. There was always shouting to accompany the cornucopia of name calling. When I was growing up, it didn’t have the fancy label of “verbal abuse” yet. (I was born in 1968, but that last sentence makes it sound like I am a dinosaur)
The constant conflict was why I chaffed at the bit to get the hell out of my childhood home.
I always swore an oath to myself that I would NEVER call anyone “stupid”. I also swore that any children I might have, would be raised to think of “stupid” as a curse word that you did not utter under my roof.
*Note: I successfully raised 2 sons who do not use the word “stupid” in reference to others. Ever.
So, fast track to the present time, my childhood helped shape me into a person who hates conflict. Literally. I abhor it. It is even worse when I am forced to witness conflict between a man & wife. It makes me literally cringe and want to crawl into a hole and die.
I write a blog where I bitch about things. I was going to be adding negative, albeit in a humorous way, to the whole “jacked the hell up” news feed that I dreaded seeing each day. I just couldn’t do it. I did not want my blog to be another piece of negativity, to another person who might be as bothered by the current state of affairs as myself.
Tonight, I got a kick in the ass, from my most narcissistic friend. He said “Hey! Blog woman. That is a command, not an identifier.”
He was right. I do need to get my mojo back. The election is over. I have less dread checking out social media. The world is ready.
(He also might be slightly less narcissistic than he was a few months ago.)
You really didn’t miss that much in the 50 days I was MIA. My oldest son turned 25, and I saw a dead body.
Oh, the dead body? Always leave them wanting more they say.
“Your past does not determine who you are. Your past prepares you for who you are to become.”