Having nothing to compare the experience of blogging to, I never realized how complicated it can get, trying to figure out what relation this kind of writing has to the rest of my life. In a dim, not especially over-analyzed way, I realized that the transformation of life events into blog entries was not a transcription nor a fictionalization--but certainly a transformation, from experience into text for reading. Blogging certainly fed the Drama Queen in me, though she was already marvelously well-nourished and burgeoning with embonpoint.
Then there was this corner of my existence that, early on, I had decided to marginalize and keep out of the blog as much as possible, because I realized that it was a point of tremendous vulnerability and uncertainty for me, and I felt that I couldn't just put it out there for perusal by all those who stop by and read--for which I am appreciative, because why else would I pay for the privilege of publishing myself? but still, I was neither prepared to put out these experiences for those who are out there but entirely invisible to me; nor did I feel I could tolerate the influx of responses from (possibly) strangers on these events, thoughts, and feelings.
It's such a truism that bloggers are Massively Narcissistic. I guess my narcissism can hold out with the best of them, but I still feel that this cliché doesn't touch nearly on what it's all about, at least not for me. However the fact is, once you decide that you're going to have this alter ego bloggy existence, it just doesn't work to pick and choose what to include and what to suppress. Well of course you can all be grateful to me that I spare you every last fart and nosepicking, though if it works I wouldn't put it past me to include it upon a suitable occasion, whatever that might be. Nonetheless over time it's become increasingly obvious to me that I was losing my attachment to the blog, because it became ever more difficult to say to myself: "yes, this is absorbing 90% of my mental and emotional energy; so I guess I'll have to light onto something from the other 10% and write about that."
So what was this 90%? Like I said, I've only mentioned it obliquely on the blog: it's that we decided to embark on the Trying To Conceive Project, with me just past the cusp of 40. The phase blushingly dubbed 'trying' started in April, and continued through three cycles--cycles that, ever since I started paying attention to them after years of neglect, increasingly seemed not quite right, as in too short or possibly signalling inadequate luteal phases or whatever your particular approach to thinking about these matters might suggest by way of description.
But in that third cycle, I triumphantly discovered that I had indeed managed to get myself knocked up. And of course initially there was joy and celebration chez Jilbur. But within a couple of weeks of the appearance of that faint pink line--and during the hilarious adventures of my recent blog-recorded week while Howie was far away at a conference--various symptoms began to demonstrate that this pregnancy wasn't really a happening thing. I've been diagnosed with a probable ectopic pregnancy, and I've been under treatment for that for the past week or so, and it ain't over yet. The gory tale of this wonderful opportunity to get over my anxiety about venopuncture continues to unfold, as my human chorionic gonadotropin level incrementally rises and the wan blastocyte or whatever the hell it is refuses to dissolve, in spite of toxic drugs hell-bent on its destruction.
I've turned comments off on this post alone, for reasons pretty much detailed above. I am very grateful for the kindness of all comments I've received on other posts, and also those emailed to me in private. I realize that it's perverse of me to decide to 'go public' after all and then display so much ambivalence about the response. I don't need advice, certainly, and though I do appreciate empathy and kind intentions, believe me: I'm doing everyone a favor by trying to curb the expression of comments, knowing that right now I may be incapable of graciously accepting them.