Dreams, hopes, blogging and writing

I am not a blogger. Bloggers feel passionate about their blogging. I did once—decades ago in blogging years.

Blogging gave me a false sense of security during the most difficult years of my life.

My mother had died suddenly, and I thought tragically, a month after 9/11.

It was damn hard to mourn, anybody but the 9/11 victims, in Manhattan then.

Maybe that was right; maybe the (now former) friend who told me not to mourn—that it had been a week, and time for me to start thinking about all the young people who had died, was right.

Except—how could you not mourn the person you had truly believed (but not realized) would never die? The person who had loved you unconditionally? Who had thought you gorgeous, brilliant, filled with common sense and wonderfulness? I thought all of these things ten or maybe a hundred times over about her.

But maybe the people in New York who thought the death of a woman who had just turned 86 was a “just” death were right.

Maybe I would have thought the same had it been somebody else’s mommy.

Maybe the people in the bank who couldn’t be bothered with me, and were constantly telling me I had brought the wrong documents though I had brought everything they had told to me bring the day before—and the list they wrote out to prove it—were right.

I would call my lawyer, and he would get so angry at them he would hang up on them.

The people at the bank would say they called the Chase branch on Long Island, and they would say they never heard of me.

Only everyone in my family had accounts at that branch, and as they told me when I would go to Long Island, they knew me well. Nobody had called them.

So many little things went wrong. When I began my blog, and found an audience in 2004 I was able to work everything out. It was better than therapy.

People were always telling me how talented I was.

I won all kinds of blogging awards—only being the least tech savvy person in the world—lost them in computer crashes, etc.

I began realizing how much my spatial and organizing disabilities (that I was just really beginning to realize I had) were holding me back.

This angered me. It still does.

I’m a proud person who was an SSI Claims Rep. I vowed never to sit at the other side of the desk.

Yet I felt my “unnamed problems” were increasingly holding me back.

Not being young and adorable anymore; doors that were closed for others no longer automatically opened for me. I began to think that they shouldn’t as I had unfair advantages.

Then I thought: “What am I? Chopped liver?”

Of course I deserve a great life.

I am a talented writer. But after half a decade of working my tush off–twelve hour days, vacations spent blogging, I no longer cared.

Blogging  awards were sweet but what did they give me? Keeping my stats up so I was one of the “highest ranked” bloggers brought me nothing but much like from some people (appreciate and love that), and hate from others.

I don’t need hate in my life.

Basically I stopped blogging. When I began again it was a different blogosphere with many rules that made me realize I didn’t fit.

I’m a story teller not a self-taught, self-help guru (though I know more about many subjects than many who do blog on self-help.)

I could talk about the problems that happen with nonverbal learning disorder (NLD), and how I handle them. but I would die before I thought my experiences should be everyone else’s.

I don’t have a spouse and/or children so I can’t write about the nest emptying out—-and when did that become something most women bloggers over a certain age should blog about?

I’m not going to blog about blogging. Obviously there’s too much I don’t care about. And so many people do it so well.

I know a lot about dementia because I ran a dementia hall in a nursing home but I. Don’t. Really. Want. To. Write. About. It.

To me the real experts are the people suffering from it, and their children–if their children care enough to be actively involved in their parents lives. I saw too many people at the nursing home who did have children who never came.

Isn’t blogging a fairly new “invention?” Shouldn’t people blog about their passions? Tell stories about their pasts, if they so desire?

Who is the blogging board who determines what should be read, and what shouldn’t be read?

I just want to write. I don’t care about my stats but I know I should because publishers do. I hate Twitter, and refuse to believe that my future depends on how many Twitter “followers” I get.

I also passionately hate the word “followers” as used on the Internet. All I can think about is “don’t drink the Kool Aid.”

To my credit I have never followed the herd.

I’m going to write and throw some of my writing into my blog.

Because I’m so disorganized and never got the proper help at the proper time, my mind doesn’t work like others.

It’s hard for me to do a proposal, and I won’t self-publish for many reasons that all have to do with my disabilities.

This isn’t an excuse.

As people are beginning to accept other invisible disabilities they should accept mine.

It makes me cry because there’s so much I can’t do properly. Yet I know I’m as talented or more talented than many people who go far.

I won’t rest until somehow I do!