One year ago today, with nothing but blind faith and a restless mind, I wrote my first post. I re-read it a thousand times and bit my cuticles as I hit publish, and voila, a blog was born. I was absolutely dumbfounded when people read it, and even followed me. According to my stats, I received an average of 131 hits per day, and 3,918 on my first month out. I was blown away.
“a bit about me : step inside my head for a few minutes” seems like another lifetime ago, like a toddler learning to walk, unsteady and falling down repeatedly, easily distracted by the next shiny object and off on a different direction, willing to do just about anything for a laugh, and all the while in desperate need of attention, love, and validation.
In all fairness, I really had no idea what I was doing, let alone what I was going to do. I just knew I had a bunch of funny stories, too much time on my hands as a freshly recovering alcoholic who was two months separated from my husband, at home raising two young boys and trying to keep my shit together. That’s where “The Monkey’s Off My Back But the Circus is Still in Town” came from.
I desperately needed an outlet, a way to get out of my own head. I had spent a lifetime escaping and drowning it all out, and now that there were no more magic elixir’s to shut down the racing thoughts and feelings, it all bubbled to the surface, and there was a full-on, three-ring circus in my head, that I had no other choice but to find a way to orchestrate. That is where “I’ll be out in a minute” comes from, of my own head.
I was faced with the overwhelming proposition of learning how to eat an elephant.
It is incredibly enlightening now to be able to read back through the past year and actually see the evolution that has taken place, emotionally, physically, spiritually, and intellectually. I can see myself growing up on the pages, and it is both humbling and rewarding to witness the maturity.
Along with my personal development, I feel that my writing has evolved and matured to a level I never imagined. I never thought I’d be writing Freshly Pressed pieces like Beef Stroganoff , not in a million years. I didn’t set out to be a great writer, or even a good one; I just wanted to be funny. If I got a laugh, I succeeded, and that was that. That sustained me for many months, then I started writing more about my sobriety, struggles, and recovery. I was surprised how easy it was for me to talk about it, and it was incredibly satisfying to connect with others in recovery and offer one another support.
We blog because we want feedback, we want validation, otherwise we would just keep journals. This has proven to be one of the most instrumental and influential facets of my recovery and personal evolution. The guidance, constructive criticism, encouragement and praise has not only elevated my writing, but given me a sense of being heard that I have been lacking, a validation that I have needed desperately my whole life. Here was a platform, where for once, I felt not only heard, but also understood.
Now, a year later, I have a direction. I am writing a book, have been writing a book, but it keeps changing and evolving. Eventually I will be satisfied with it enough to begin the query process, but I’m getting there. I’m content, happy, almost 18 months sober and now 3 weeks smoke free. My kids are wildly fantastic and I’m in better physical shape than I’ve been in 20 years. Next week I’ll be joining the convent.
Let me tell you, this old dog has learned some new tricks.
It’s awesome to have a voice, and to connect with so many amazing people across the globe and share our stories and evolve together. My little blog that started off as all fuckity fuck this fuck that fuck you is growing up. It still likes to curse, but has found that everything has a time and a place, knowledge that stems directly from my new relationship with the word moderation.
I now have over 1,000 followers and average 60,000 hits a month. That is deserving of the word fuck, as in holy fucking shit, or get the fuck out of town, or no fucking way! That’s the average number of people who fit into a football stadium, every month. That’s fucked up, and by fucked up, I mean totally awesome.
Believe me, I’ve got nothing but love and a whole lot of gratitude. My ego wouldn’t be doing cartwheels and high-fiving itself right now if it wasn’t for all of you who actually read what I write. You’re all crazy, and awesome, and talented and quirky and funny and honest and brilliant. I’m honored to have a little corner in this amazing Word Press community.
Last year I would’ve ended with You’re Welcome, this year I’ll try Thank you.