Oh, Hello

Since about 2014 I've had stabbing, transient anxiety that this blog was deleted due to inactivity. In college, I didn't check my Hotmail account for like 2 months, and when I logged back in there was NOTHING. Five years of communication gone. Earlier this year I remembered I had a Yahoo account that I hadn't checked in about 2 years, and when I finally got into it, it was a void. Emails from my late mother were gone forever - my heart felt as empty as my inbox. 

Don't think I haven't considered committing a heinous crime against humanity just to get the FBI or NSA to recover my emails in search of clues to my motivation. 

<Insert But her emails joke here>

Rather than just check Butter No Parsnips, I ignored it. If I didn't look, I couldn't be disappointed. It could exist in a state like a bad interpretation of Schrödinger's Cat. Maybe it's here, maybe it's not, I just didn't know if I could bear to open that box. If you're reading this, we both know the answer. It's here! Hooray! Such a relief! Right? 

What I didn't know the answer to, is if I cared so much, why did I stop? What long, dark tea-time of the soul was I wrestling with? Why am I back now? Gentle reader, this blog let one facet of my personality open up and be honest. These writings are not a perfect representation of me, but they are a perfect representation of one piece of me, and when my brother had cancer I stopped letting myself be honest in real life. Because a couple of my friends followed me, I couldn't let them see what was happening on my inside while I lied in the real world. The rage and frustration and sheer pain couldn't come out in one place while I tried to smile in another. That was the first blow. 

Surviving physical therapy school consumed most of my time, and when I graduated I assumed I'd start writing again. But, no. Losing my brother nearly killed me. It was also the start of the first cracks in my marriage that I could not fix with mental Bondo putty. They spiderwebbed through the foundation, and once I finally started me career and felt like everything was going to come together, the marital structure started to turn to dust. Now my smile was plastered on, and virtually admitting to anything else was impossible. That was the killing blow. 

This isn't good work. In high school my dreams of being a novelist felt entirely attainable, and I think my high school self would maaaaybe be horrified by what I've done with the written word. But let me tell that loveable b*tch something - she deeeeeefinitely wrote shitty poetry and needs to back up. It's my work, and like a mother with her ugly-ass baby, my love is fierce and protective. 

That'll do Butter No Parsnips, that'll do.