i really hate the existence of this blog, and everyone else’s
January 31, 2013 § 19 Comments
Instead of working on homework that I really need to do, I spent the afternoon adding links to my blogroll. What a pain in the ass. I never realized how many blogs I read. And I dislike the way it looks. I want clean, simple appearances, not a bunch of stuff everywhere, fighting for attention. So I placed the blogroll at the bottom.
A lot of them are adoption-related, and written by adoptive parents, birth parents, adoptees, or activists. Some of them aren’t; they’re just blogs I started following. And it’s by no means a complete list of my reading material. I read way more fashion blogs than I can count, and especially men’s dress clothes since that’s what I work with.
If I read a blog, it’s because I think it is somehow worthy or interesting or well-written. But there’s more to it. I’ve written a few times about how I cannot relate to many adoption blogs. There’s nothing wrong with that person or their story. I just can’t relate. Clearly, going through the same experience does not mean we are twins. I don’t fully relate to many of the authors I read, either. But if I see something that speaks to me, I read it. And I do care. I care about the friends I’ve made, even if I hate that blogging about adoption is the reason we became friends.
And with that, I think I am going to cut back on reading all these adoption blogs. Not stop, just cut back. I have an obsessive need to KNOW, to know what to expect, to know how it may develop, and to prepare myself somehow. It’s exhausting to worry about the future.
The truth is, all the blogs in the world can’t tell me what my relationship with C and L will be, or if there will even be one. None of these blogs can tell me what you, sweet little boy, will think of me when you grow older, how you will treat me, or if you speak to me at all. None of it describes exactly how your life will transpire, how you will handle being adopted. Women write about their own lives, but none of them predict my future, if I will be a mom again, if I will be alive in a few years, if I will be happy or sad.
Other people’s blogs provide a view of their experience, and that’s valuable. But my life is mine, and the ugliest part of my life is here, as naked and stripped open as a corpse on an autopsy table. My words are the only ones that describe it.
“Blog” is a disgusting word. It brings to mind someone vomiting up their insides.