The jealous blogger in question has voluntarily outed herself, in exchange for Google love. It’s the fully scary Kelley from Magnet Bold Too. Awesome shoes, Kel.
I know there is a least one blogger out there who is, in a way, a little jealous of what I’ve got here.
Don’t jump up and down just yet. Hear me out. Because I get what she’s saying, and I was glad she bought it up with me.
It appears I get to talk about so much here. Vent away about the impact mental health problems have had on my life. Spill my feelings, over and over again. Because my husband is dead, and what I say effects him no longer.
Like I said, I get that. And I do appreciate what I have here.
But I’ve paid for it. In return for being honest, I lost friends and family.
And, in a way that I guess must be contrary to public perception, I don’t talk about everything here. There’s a lot that I hold back.
Everyone has barriers for their blogs, comfort levels. With the death of Tony and what I revealed here, mine was effectively stretched, then shattered.
But I kept some perimeters.
There are always things we don’t blog about.
I made the decision, very early on, that this blog would not be a place for hard core bitching- that was before Tony died. Afterward, I kept that principle, as far as my own anger would allow.
So, while I reveal a lot of my husband, and our lives together, there are things that are not on this blog, that will never go here. I’ve drawn a line between what was Tony’s on his own, and what was ‘ours’ as a couple. And while I share the ‘ours’- because it’s mine to share- I don’t write down all of the ‘his’.
If that makes any sense at all.
I also decided to restrict what I would publish here in terms of other people’s actions. Keep safe, legally and emotionally. Don’t name names, or publish too many details.
So, hypothetically speaking… maybe I don’t blog about two sets of my sons godparents who I have not seen since my husband’s funeral. I don’t blog about my husband friends, who had his name tattooed on their arms, then blatantly lied and ripped me off a few hundred dollars in the months following his death.
I don’t say there are so many people with my husband’s name, or some symbol representing him, etched into their skin. I can’t help but feel disgusted, as those people who bear his name but have deserted us anyway. I don’t talk about how I hope the ink fucking burns, eats at them like acid.
I don’t talk, specifically, about the person who told me, emotionless, that of course Tony’s death was my fault, everyone knew that. I don’t blog about one of Tony’s ‘best mates’ who asked me ‘what was wrong’ the night after Tony’s funeral, and refused to come to my house and see my children. I don’t point fingers at the people who did see my children, deliberately doing it without my knowledge, while there were in the care of relatives,sneaking to them so they would not have to see me.
I don’t discuss what went on in Tony’s workplace in the six months before he died.
Hell, I haven’t even published the name of the mechanic who took two months to put my car back together, knowing that my husband was dead and we were desperately waiting for that vehicle back so we could move on, just a little, from one of the things that was stressing Tony out so badly to start with.
So… I guess… don’t be jealous, don’t be angry. I hold my tongue as much as anyone else. I understand the impulse. But as I said, all the apparent freedom I have here, I’ve paid for. And while it may appear that I hold back on nothing, I don’t publish everything about everything.
No one does.