Who’s reading this?

It’s been almost a year since I’ve posted anything on this site, so there’s a good chance no one is reading this. And yet, the thought of who reads my blog (or used to) is a big part of why I haven’t posted anything in a long, long time.

Over the years, the reason for this website has morphed and adapted to mirror the changes in both my personal and professional life. It provided a sounding board, when I lost my job and the identity I’d attached to it – a safe place for trial and error in the ongoing upcycling of Leah. It became a real-time resume I could share with potential employers and a virtual headhunter, introducing me to people and places I wouldn’t have otherwise encountered. It let me appear composed, while sharing my most painful news, and spared me having to tell my story more than once.

But, somewhere along the way, I got so distracted by who might read what I’m writing that I stopped writing altogether.

After my husband left, I spent way too much time overthinking any potential post and what he might read into it. Too many posts were thinly-veiled letters to him – a pathetic attempt at having my say, long after he stopped caring what I had to say.

When I decided to run for magistrate last year, my internal editor shifted gears again.  I couldn’t shake the knowledge that potential voters might stumble onto my blog. How would they feel about my often dark humor, my heart so big it hid my sleeve entirely, and my penchant for oversharing?

Then came my manic phase, where I’d enjoy several upbeat, energetic days in a row, convinced I had turned a corner, only to hit a wall and be forced to watch that wall crumble in slow motion, burying me and any plans I’d made. The days when I bottomed out I was especially tempted to write, but I ran out of new ways to express my pain and was starting to sense “sad Leah” was wearing out her welcome in a lot of circles.

So, I tucked sad Leah inside my laptop and closed it. Family and friends either got upbeat Leah or no Leah. I was done processing my pain in public. At the time, it didn’t feel like it was getting me anywhere.

No surprise, but all the shit I was processing didn’t go away, just because I stopped processing it; now it was just trapped inside my head and my heart, and had to find other ways to come out. I can’t bring myself to share all the ways sad Leah leaked all over perfectly innocent bystanders, but I will tell you what brought me back to my keyboard tonight.

I went to a wedding yesterday, an occasion I’d been looking forward to for months. It was supposed to be a date, but that fell through. No problem. I had friends saving me a seat and knew the sanctuary would be filled with people I hadn’t seen in years – former coworkers, classmates, people I knew from lots of my previous lives. I had my favorite black dress, a good hair day, and new jewelry.

I arrived late (some things never change), but the back pew was empty (phew!), I sat down and bowed my head as the congregation began to pray. Then I started crying. I pulled out a hanky and dabbed at my eyes. No big deal. Lots of people cry at weddings. But I couldn’t stop. I slipped out of the sanctuary and headed for the bathroom, so I could pull myself together.

One look in the mirror – plus the fact that I still couldn’t stop crying – and I knew I had no choice but to leave. I’d left my coat in the pew. Friends had seen me arrive and would be worried. But there wasn’t enough concealer in the world to repair my tear-stained face. I was not about to become the center of attention on someone else’s wedding day, so I got in my car and drove home.

A couple of friends texted me. “Where’d you go?” “Are you okay?” I said I was sick. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but the realization that I’d have to repeat this story to dozens of people over the next week began to overwhelm me. If I was sick, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but the shame I felt at not being able to pull myself together was too much. It felt like 18 months of progress vanished in an afternoon. I was right back at that first divorce support group meeting, sobbing in a stairwell.

I told my boys I wasn’t feeling well and went to bed early. I tried to sleep, but my subconscious thought it would be fun to replay the day my husband left and I woke up from that nightmare unable (or maybe unwilling?) to fall asleep again. So, I lay there, waiting for sunrise, retracing my steps, trying to figure out when and where my healing stopped. How did I get so far off track that my body had to blindside me with uncontrollable crying in order to get my attention?

I tried to be still, to be silent, to focus on my breathing, to live in the moment – to listen for whatever was inside me to speak. Then I remembered. I listen from the outside in. Actor. Minister. Parent. Teacher. Politician. None of these were my idea. Or, if they were, I couldn’t hear them until someone else said them out loud. And it seems that six years ago, when I started this blog, I was crafting my own outside-in way of processing some of the harder moments of my life.

In order to know myself better, I have to share myself with someone else. In hindsight, I believe that’s what prompted my run for magistrate and I know that’s what prompted me to go on my first date since my divorce. The introvert, homebody, Louisa May Alcott in me LOVES staying tucked in my little house, crafting and organizing and feathering my family’s nest. But I crave being known – really known, like two decades of marriage known – and that requires interaction.

I have no doubt I’ll be tempted again to close my laptop and my life – out of fear of getting hurt, the shame and embarrassment that come with being human, or just the exhaustion of living – but I know now (and can re-read this if I forget): closing myself off brings a different kind of pain (and tears). So, despite the intense desire to slap yet another smile on my face and change the subject, I’m choosing to speak (well, write) – not so much to you, but to me. I need to hear this, maybe even more than I need to say this (and, according to my tear ducts, I really needed to say some of this).

Thanks for listening.