What I wish I could say {Just Write}

If I had it to do over again, I would blog anonymously.

Not even because I care what people think, really. And by people of course I mean women – men couldn’t care less what I say or how I say it. But women? Women are a different animal entirely.

And I find this restrictive.

I can no longer say what I think, because it will be analyzed and internalized and occasionally held against even my young daughters. I have to weigh words very carefully, because there is this presumption that there’s always a deeper, hidden meaning, rather than just taking words at face value.  For someone who is accustomed to calling a spade a spade, these are difficult waters to navigate. And for someone who has always used writing as an outlet, this has removed both the pleasure and the purity of my writing.

I feel as if I can only share the happy shiny moments of our lives, and that’s not a very realistic picture to paint.

I wish I could write about our struggle with the sneaky girl who my daughters describe as being more concerned about her popularity than anything else, and how alarming it is to me that this behavior starts at such a young age. Or the pain of seeing a child you knew and loved turn into someone you don’t even recognize, and how you can’t do anything about it because it’s not even your own child.

I’d like to rail against parents who are oblivious to their children’s flaws, and the damage that this head-in-the-sand parenting does to the rest of the world – or at least the student body.

I want to ask you how you survive the tweens, let alone the teens, because right now I’m not sure I have the strength. Or enough wine.

I’d like to tell you how crazy it makes me when these people I know spout their pop psychology my direction, and how hard I laughed inside the time I randomly asked one, mid-lecture, if she’d ever read the blog People I Want to Punch in the Throat. [Warning: adult language within] She completely missed my humor.

I wish I could write through the heartache of my daughter learning she was excluded from something by a girl she thought was a very good friend – the way she sobbed for an hour and asked me why she wasn’t good enough. The way I held her and told her that her worth would never be determined by anyone else, and the way she looked at me with huge, sad eyes, completely unbelieving.

I’d like to ask for your thoughts on organized religion and denominations. I’m struggling with concerns and frustrated with some things on a macro level, but I’ve learned from experience that when you put it in writing, people interpret it on a micro level…so I can’t. And that’s even more frustrating.

The easy answer would be just to write it anyway, but I’ve learned firsthand that this just invites questions and assumptions and chatter. I’ve been very taken aback by people reading my blog and then questioning me about it when I see them – was that written about them, why did I say that, what does this mean?


And this is the trouble with women to begin with. I’m not shy. If I have something to say to someone, I will say it. But be warned, I’m used to talking to men, where I can say what I please without need to carefully weigh words first. I don’t use flowery language. I don’t really sugar coat. I’m not looking to change that, either.

And if I don’t say it, it’s because there’s nothing that needs to be said. If I write something, I’m writing. Period.

Writing. Thinking. Processing. Not sending out subtle messages – that’s a sneaky, girl thing, and I don’t play those games. {It’s telling when others’ thoughts go there, though}

So I’m not writing here much. Not because I don’t have happy shiny moments to share, but because that’s not all that I have. We are so much more than craft projects and school awards and book reviews, and if we can’t be us, if I can’t be me – all of me – then I’m not sure I want to be here at all.

{Just Write}

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4 thoughts on “What I wish I could say {Just Write}

  1. Jen says:

    Couldn’t agree more…except I do blog anonymously, and this is exactly why. Women as a collective whole are insufferable, and young girls are downright intolerable. My son has a girl in his class that is ‘queen bee’ (read that book if you haven’t yet) and everytime I see her I am thankful I don’t have a daughter. I used to be good friends with her mom, too, but I couldn’t stand to hear any more about how sweet/smart/funny/ etc her little wench is, so I avoid her now. Amazing how many people are oblivious to their own kids faults.


    Jen Reply:

    Book is Queen Bees and Wannabees, BTW. It was the basis for Mean Girls, which is why I read it.


  2. Lisa says:

    Well you know how I feel because we just discussed this the other day. I still say, though, that you need to call the other mother out on that crap. That exclusion was the MOM’s doing, not the kids, and she doesn’t deserve your tongue biting. Alleged adult women acting like middle school juveniles…ugh. At least my students have the excuse of their age for their behavior. She’s just being a witch.


  3. Debbie says:

    I am very sorry about your daughter being left out. That’s just terrible, and I agree with the previous commenter that it was likely the mom’s doing and not the child’s. Which is sadder still. It would be nicer to think that she was just thoughtless rather than intentionally cruel. At least, I hope that is the case. It does not make anything better for your daughter I know, but helps me to think that people aren’t truly intending to be as awful as they are sometimes. Self absorbed and oblivious is at least somewhat better(?)

    I know it isn’t always easy, but I do think that you should write what you please without worry. You will not be a happy person if you keep things bottled up inside; you are allowing others to control you. And if they are the type to judge and question your personal struggles, then they aren’t worth your concern. You know that.

    The drama never really goes away, even at my age, but there is less of it. This is why I’ve always preferred my own company over that of women. Much easier.


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