Blogging to Myself
If you were to look through a crowd and pick out the person with a completely hellish home life, it probably wouldn’t be me. Chances are, I wouldn’t stand out at all. I’m just another person walking down the street, just another person shopping at the store.
And I’m happy with that. It means I’ve done something right in moving on.
If you can’t guess that my father was emotionally and physically abusive, I’ve won another little battle. If you can’t guess that I’ve had more stepmothers than Mary Tudor, it’s just another thing for me to smile about.
Of course, it seems a bit silly to be going on about how happy I am that you don’t know these things while blogging about it. Counter-intuitive, even. But I have a reason for it, and it’s not because I enjoy being dramatic (but that is a hobby of mine): it’s because I’ve reached a point where I’m tired of keeping all these stories bundled up inside, and an anonymous blog seemed like a good idea. In all honesty, some of the crap my father put my family through was a bit amusing, in a laughing-at-the-lightning sort of way.
Also, my therapist recommended it.