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My goal nearly 32 months ago was to have a place to write about the things I didn’t feel comfortable disclosing to a spiral notebook tucked way up high on a closet shelf. That’s what I did before the blog. I accumulated stacks of spiral notebooks in the years between my early teens and 2005.
I never expected anyone really to read it. Well, maybe that’s not entirely true. I read and loved the now long-gone Housewyfe Wendy in the months before I started up here. I wished that I could express myself as clearly and beautifully as she did, and I wanted to have the kind of loyal, supportive community she attracted. I wanted people to tell me, “You wrote exactly what I’ve been thinking. I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
I got all that and more, but as often happens with unexpected growth, I had no real plan for how to handle it. I made things up as time went on, with lots of advice from those with far more experience and wisdom than myself. I took plentiful measures to see that my meat-space identity stayed private. But for one minor slip-up when I first started, I’ve done pretty well in that regard.
By now though, many of my real-life friends know that I write and that my writing shows up online. Only a very few of them know where. I’m so thankful that those few people love my physical and digital incarnations.
I feel so lucky to be able to share it with more and more people as time goes on. It’s a small miracle each time someone reads it and then keeps on liking me. I mostly expect them not to. I mostly expect them to recoil in horror at the sheer verbosity, if not at the buttsex.
But they haven’t. And I’m almost slavishly grateful for that.
In all this time, only three people have tied the real person to the blog without my help. One was told the URL by an irate friend; I am now at peace about this. The other two people, my parents, were told by God. I am most decidedly not at peace about this.
They know the address, but they maintain that they have not yet read the writing here. They’ve only read places where it’s been linked or mentioned on other sites. Therefore they seem to have an unnecessarily unbalanced view of what I’m writing, and by extension, of what I’m doing with my life.
I’m torn. I’ve been torn for the weeks since they told me of the trespass.
I could, I suppose, refuse entirely to discuss this with them. They stepped where I’d specifically asked them not to; it would seem reasonable not to let them gather any more knowledge than they already have. I could block their IP (for what it’s worth) or demand that they knock off the intrusiveness.
This option brings with it a boatload of complications. They already violated my wishes by hunting me down; they prolly aren’t going to be too pleased to be told that it’s not up for further discussion. Nor too willing to comply. Most importantly, it does not address the basis of the problem: They want more access into my life.
The other alternative? I could throw the doors open wide. I could invite them in to read everything there is to read, with no shame at all on my part. I’m not ashamed of it. Of any of it.
But I’ve never wanted to make someone uncomfortable with what’s here or how I’m living; this is the main reason I didn’t invite them to read. There are things that some folks just don’t need to know about me, and my parents are at the top of that list.
Surely there are options other than cutting off all access or giving them unlimited access. Surely there is some middle ground. But I’m too caught up in the situation to see the alternatives.
Can you see the alternatives?



