As with almost everything I’ve ever tried to do in my life, my #wordy30 didn’t really work out.
I started strong, writing a new blog post every day even when it meant typing it on my phone with only my right thumb while nursing ten-month old Holden in the rocking chair at midnight.
Then we went on a trip to Arizona (the last before finalizing our official green card application for Kyle, after which our lawyer recommended that we not cross the border until we’re hopefully approved), and I fell off the wagon.
Then Trump became president, and I sank into a deep, anxiety-ridden depression.
Then I pulled myself out of it (mainly by deciding to become a full-fledged Zero Waste eco-warrior hippie, instead of just dabbling in it like I used to). I started to actually *do something* instead of sit around panicking about it.
Then I started to feel normal again.
Then I started to get busy with new projects, plus all the old stuff I’ve always had to do (i.e. raise my darling boys).
Then it was 11 months later and I hadn’t written a single new post on Archives of our Lives.
Then (and here’s where we get to the farewell) one day, feeling nostalgic, I pulled up this dusty old archive of my life, and began reading posts from throughout the last decade. A few of them made me smile. Every now and then one made me laugh. But mostly?
Mostly they made me cringe.
The more I read, the more I became overwhelmed by an intense feeling of self-loathing. I couldn’t believe having ever written some of the things I did. Why did I get so personal? Why did I share so much? Why was I such a freaking B? So entitled, so self-centred, so whiny? So. Annoying.
I’ve changed, everyone. The good news is, I’m really happy with the person I’m becoming. The bad news is, I don’t like the person who I used to be.
I wanted to delete it—all of it—right then and there.
I called Kyle to tell him my plan:
“Why,” he asked?
“Because I am so embarrassed of it. It’s awful.”
“I always wondered why you shared so much,” he replied.
And immediately I felt a whole lot worse.
There are a few posts I might try to salvage, but all the drivel has to go. I’m not fishing for compliments, and by saying I’m not fishing for compliments that’s not just a secret way of actually fishing for compliments. I really really don’t want anyone to tell me not to be embarrassed or irritated with myself, because it won’t make me magically not feel this way.
I am leaving this post up for a week and a half, and then on my 31st birthday (because my BA in English Literature made me love symbolism, and because that seems like enough time to say goodbye), I’m taking it, and everything else, down. Archives of Our Lives will be no longer.
If you want to follow my new Zero Waste journey, I invite you to check out my new site, The Non-Waster. It’s the thing that’s been taking up so much of my time this month, and Zero Waste is the thing that pulled me out of the depths of Trumpian despair earlier this year. I’ll be blogging there (hopefully regularly), and you can find all my other social media stuff related to Zero Waste, minimalism, and prepping over there. It will be a toned-down version of my life, but it will still be me.
If you want to follow me on a more personal level, I’m still instagramming at my private account here. It’s private for two reasons (little boys whose names start with H), so if I don’t recognize your username I probably won’t be accepting the follow request. Ain’t nobody got time for child molesters. I can’t imagine why you would, but if for some reason you really *really* want to follow me there and I don’t accept the request, feel free to shoot me a line and tell me who you are. Make sure to clarify whether or not you’re a child molester.
Thank you to anyone who stuck with me through the last decade of my life, in all its dramatic glory. Even though I’m pretty embarrassed of all the stuff I shared with you, I’ll never regret the people my blog allowed me to meet, both in person and virtually. Relationships are everything. I love you all.
Unless I hate you. But you’ll probably never know.