You write a post about silly nonsense, the first real post in a month and get told that you are a sheep and should kill yourself. By a person with no name, but none the less, some person who felt that was the right thing to say.

As bloggers, we are supposed to not care about this. We should get used to it. You have enough hits to your site, you are bound to get some trolls. We are supposed to harden our heart and not let the stupid comments bother us. As a seasoned writer in a public forum, I am supposed to just let this roll off my back. It doesn’t matter, it’s just some asshat troll. Delete and ignore. We’ve even come up with the blogging terminology to describe these people; the people who attack in comments, the people with no names.

But it does hurt and it does sting. Even after all these years of doing this, it bothers me. Intellectually it doesn’t bother me. But the heart and the brain don’t’ always feel the same way. You just don’t say that to someone. That is something that I can’t just brush off. The, you should kill yourself comment. The rest of it can be ignored, but that one stings. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I had a friend who did kill himself. In some ways it bothers me more when someone attacks a friend of mine, than when they attack me. I am always willing to defend a friend and luckily I didn’t have to say anything yesterday, as all of you were kind enough to defend me.

After the multiple comments and then the attacks on all of my friends, it almost seemed funny in some way. This person who so wanted to be known as the troll of the day. It seemed less personal after that, which was nice. But that one comment sits under my skin and eats at me. Because I wonder why someone would say such hateful things to a stranger. I wonder what I said to provoke him. Did my talking about Disneyland or my kids last day of school, provoke such a hateful response? Am I just an easy target?

It’s not me. I’ve been told that two dozen times, by people I adore. I know they are right, yet I still feel responsible.

I think in some way, they must be jealous. Jealous of our families, jealous of our friendships, jealous that they have no name. That must be really sad for them, to have no name. I doubt they’d walk up to a stranger on the street and spew such hatred, as they are apt to do online. I wonder what makes someone feel that this is okay? That the words they type are any different than the words they say aloud. Words have power, whether you type or say them. Maybe they don’t care, maybe I am such a horrible person and I deserve it. However, I doubt it, because I’ve never in real life, had someone attack me like this. You want to know why? Because I am a nice human being. I am kind to others, even people who don’t deserve it. I say please and thank you. I donate money and time to help the less fortunate. I don’t tailgate, nor flip off strangers who cut me off in traffic. I’ve never taken a thing in this world that did not belong to me. I am a hard worker and a responsible human being. I take good care of my children. I am a good person.

But they don’t see that. They don’t seem to care to see that. They don’t care that telling a depressed person to kill themselves is just plain wrong. He doesn’t care, because it doesn’t affect his life.

It bothers me, this lack of caring. The ability to spew filth and not care what you’ve put into the world. It makes me wonder about the world. And I don’t like that feeling.

This person, who taunted the blog world yesterday, doesn’t care about people. Doesn’t care about people’s feelings or emotions. Most likely it was a ploy for attention. There have been others before and there will be more after. Eventually they move on, because truly, why would you continue to read blogs written by parents, if you hate parents and children? (And hi, don’t you have parents, weren’t you once a child?)

It hurts me as much as it does, not really because of the 23 words this person said, but because I am still fragile. I am the first person to admit, I’ve had a hard ass month, which has come after a hard ass eight months, following a rough couple of years. I have my good moments and my not so good moments. Yesterday was the first time in a month when I hadn’t been depressed and this is what I get. Yesterday, by the way, was the four week mark. I lost the baby four weeks ago, last night.

I have been depressed and trying to be okay (and doing a dam good job of it) for a month. I’m fragile and I can’t handle this without talking about. I can’t ignore it like I should probably do. I can’t just let it go.

Which is why I’m writing this. Not because I want to give this person more attention. I have deleted and will continue to delete all of his comments. I am not going to link to his site, nor will I ever click on it again.

I am writing this, because I have to. I have to say all of this. I have to write that this isn’t okay. That I am not just some random stranger behind a computer screen. I am a person with feelings. I am a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend and dog owner. I am a good person.

I am taking a stand. I am saying to the world, to all the trolls out there, that this has gone on long enough. Go find a life and stay the hell out of mine. Leave my friends alone. No one cares what you have to say. Shoo.

Today’s guest post is by the lovely Mrs. Chicken. Because of what this post about, my intro is below it. After you read it, you’ll understand why.

I’ve spent the past month or so tied up in knots about my blog. Should I keep it going? Shut it down? Open it to my family?

It’s so stupid, all this angst about a series of virtual pages, a life imagined in the ether. I am not Mrs. Chicken; I am a living, human being with facets more varied and strange than I could ever share by tapping out a series of words strung together. Do you know me? Yes and no. Do I know you?

No. And yes.

Issa and I crossed paths last summer, when I was startled—terrified, really—out of my ambivalence about my second pregnancy. My OB decided I needed an iron infusion, administered directly into my veins with an IV. Later, I found out that this risky procedure is attempted only in very dire situations, and only in the hospital.

Only in the hospital, because it can kill you if you have an allergic reaction.

I had a reaction; not quite full anaphlaxsis, but close. I never stopped breathing, but I did black out and wake up to two Epi pens surging through my system, body seized with painful contractions, as frantic nurses and my midwife struggled for several long, life-altering seconds to locate the heartbeat of my 37-week old baby.

The babyman. Babyman was planned, expected, wanted. But that didn’t stop me from gnawing on the idea of him like a dog with a bone. It didn’t stop me from endlessly questioning how I would manage to love him, with a heart already so full of adoration for the little girl who stole my soul lo these four and a half years ago.

But that day, I realized how much my heart wanted him. How important and real and deep my love for him was, even as he lay hidden inside my inhospitable womb.

Issa read my recounting of those 30 minutes, and suddenly, the two of us were bonded. I changed her life, she tells me. That experience of mine allowed the ice floes inside her own heart to break free, giving way to the warm mother-love she has for her own son.

Issa, you see, experienced loss.

Issa feared the love. She feared loving her sweet baby curled up inside her, lest he be taken from her. She’s suffered heartbreak and loss and she was brittle.

But Issa was not broken. And neither was I. But sometimes it takes a shock to break you free from the fear, and we both got a shock that fateful July afternoon.

And so, Issa and I are bonded. When my son was born, I thought of Issa. It sounds impossible, disingenuous. But I did. And I knew that shortly thereafter, she would experience the overwhelming love that I felt as I pressed my lips to my son’s warm, freshly minted face.

A few nights ago, Issa and I chatted online about the strange wonderfulness of this imaginary world we share, and as we signed off, I wondered if I would ever meet this young woman who has become my friend in the strangest, most unimaginable way possible.

I might not ever lay eyes on Issa. But she and I share something difficult, if not impossible to articulate.

I think of Issa, and of all the other mothers and fathers out there in this vast universe, and I think of how I am changed because of them. How I love more deeply, share more openly, weep more copiously, laugh more uproariously, because of a series of words strung together.

Because of stories.

And because of Issa, and Heather and Mike and Tanis and Kristen and Binky and all the rest too numerous to name, I will continue to share my own tales. Because you just don’t know when your life will bump up against someone else’s, and change everything.

I can’t really remember when I found Mrs. Chickens site. I think there is a possibility I read her a bit before I quit blogging, but I’m not positive. Who knows? It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of life. What I know is that when I first started reading her blog last summer, we became connected in a way that most people in the “real” world wouldn’t understand. In a way that some of you, might not even understand. I don’t think I can do it justice, so I’m going to ask you to read THIS if you’d like to know a bit more. It’s a post that I wrote, the one where I realized how amazing this new friend of mine was. It’s a bit of a harsh post, because it discusses the last time I lost a baby. But that day last July, where Mrs. Chicken almost lost her Babyman, was the day I realized I could and did love mine. That he’d already taken over my heart, I just didn’t believe it yet. This woman, who I’d not met had changed my view on my life, my son’s life. In one moment, she changed my life. Strange? Maybe. But it is true. I hadn’t been blogging again for very long last summer. I was still in the, share silly stories, not reality with the blogging world. I hadn’t found my voice yet. But that day, I choose to be real with all of you, or whomever of you were reading back then. I hadn’t said yet, that I wasn’t sure I could love Harrison. I hadn’t told the story of my loss, or my breakdown after it. I hadn’t yet decided that I really wanted to do this again, this crazy blogging life. That day, I knew I was in, fully in. That day, I realized that I wanted to be apart of this community again. In some ways, I wish I’d never taken a break. But my experience is different this time around, my friends are different, I am different.

This woman, this beautiful woman, who I may never meet, is someone who I am honored to call my friend. It’s a strange community we have here. Having people guest post and write such brilliant heartfelt things has really shown me how important all of you are too me. I am still finding my words again, but I am getting there. I will be back, I promise. You can’t get rid of me now.

Insta-mom is today’s guest poster. Which makes me so happy. I am really loving these guest posters. I mean I loved them all before, but I’m loving this semi-break. I am feeling the urge to start writing again, so there will be more posts from me in the next few weeks, mingled with the last few guest posts.

Insta-mom managed to put into words what I have been wanting to say for awhile. Which really, makes it so much easier for me. Because hi, she’s a teacher and has a way of getting to a point when she writes, which I tend to not be able to do. I tend to be in the, see if you can find the point of this post because I surely can’t, camp.

A lot of you have your Internet life and your real life mingle. You do play dates, you go to every conference imaginable, your family and friends know about your blog. Maybe a few of your friends in real life, blog too. Mine don’t, no one knows except for Logan and my BFF Kate and I’d like to keep it that way. They’re not telling anyone. Most days, they pretend they don’t know. It really has nothing to do with any of you. It’s not that I feel any different about you than I do my real life friends. For me this is just the way it is. But I, like Insta-mom am seeing the lines being blurred. In some respects it scares me. In others, it seems like it’s not a big deal at all. Like it’s the natural thing. I care too much about all of you to worry about it anymore. I fought it so hard with my last blog and in the end I had to stop blogging because of it. This time, I’m just not willing to do that. Do my children and husband remain separate from my online friends, yes. They do, that is Logan’s number one issue and I am okay with it. (To him you are all the invisible people in the computer.) But too me? No, it’s just not that black and white anymore. I do this for me. To have something that is all mine. When you are friends with the same people your entire life, you each have a role to play. A role you know, a role that I am entirely comfortable with. Our lives our so intermingled that every story I tell has them in it in some way. Our kids are all the same age and it doesn’t look like it will be any different for them. I love this about my life. However, blogging is just for me and I love that too. It’s my thing that no one else does, that no one else is interested in. It’s my deal.

Anyway, I am honored to have Insta-mom share in my space today. (See at first I had no idea what to say, then the rambling happened.)

At my mom’s house on Mother’s Day, my sister-in-law was looking through the World’s Most Influential People issue of Time Magazine. When she got to the page about the founders of Twitter, she declared, “I still don’t even understand what Twitter is.”

I didn’t offer anything by way of explanation as I sat there on the couch next to her, my Blackberry intentionally left at home so I wouldn’t sneak to the bathroom too often to read my Twitter feed.

Those of you reading this who do Twitter probably totally understood why I did that; those of you who don’t quite possibly think I’m a hopeless loser.

And that’s my point. So many people don’t “get” the relationships those of us who have Internet lives develop with one another. I’ve heard people talk about blogs and social networking sites with that air of contempt in their voice. Those things are for social outcasts, recluses, people whose skin is oddly colored because most of the light they get in a day come from the glow of their LCD screen.

I only told two people I know “in real life” about my blog. Another found out quite by accident. But that is the extent that my two worlds overlap. I like it that way. You see, in real life, I am a bit of a recluse. I tend to resist social situations that might involve large groups of people. I try to branch out, but I don’t do well overcoming my fears—the fear of rejection, ridicule, exclusion. In real life, I am self-conscious and insecure.

There is safety in the Internet. People don’t have to read your blog or follow you on Twitter. If they don’t want to know you, they won’t. They don’t laugh at the worn out pair of shoes you wore because they were the only ones you could find. They don’t judge that you haven’t washed your hair because you just can’t bring yourself to exert that much effort. And if they tell you they don’t like you, the sting can wear off more quickly because in many ways, they are not “real” to you.

So I have created for myself these neatly separated worlds: the “real” one, where I am what I know I am; and the Internet one, where I am who I wish I could be. I am open and confident and social. But these worlds stay separated. I am happy when life is neatly compartmentalized. For so long, I’ve needed them separated.

But several times recently, those two worlds collided. And they collided in ways that I can’t ignore. So the lines have to bleed and become fuzzy. I have had to come to terms with the idea that these bloggers I read, these people I tweet with, are not just ephemeral beings elsewhere in the universe who know me in a way that even people I am related to do not. They are actual flesh-and-blood friendships. Friendships grown in a different part of my self than the “real” friendships I already have. They are people who know me in a more honest way than anyone who actually “knows” me.

The power of those relationships has come crashing down on me in the last several months. You don’t realize how invested you become in someone’s story until that story includes pain—pain that you feel as acutely as anyone not experiencing it in the first person can. You are forced to accept these relationships into your life, the real one, not just the invisible one. All the strings of the two worlds become tangled, knotted, inseparable.

But offering friendship and consolation to people you have grown to know over the Internet is much more complicated. You can’t stop by with a basket of muffins and a box of tissues when you are in California and your friend is 1000 miles away. And even when geography doesn’t impede your outstretched heart, how do you offer your love and concern to someone who, in spite of being part of your every day life, you’ve never actually met?

Maybe I have trouble giving people the benefit of the doubt, but because these Internet relationships are so much different, I don’t trust that people who don’t have them will always understand the depth of the friendships. I can’t rely on them understand how you can hurt for someone you’ve never seen.

And I won’t ask them to understand how these invisible relationships can actually make you a better person, a better friend, in real life, too. Because when you can’t stop for a cup of coffee or offer a hug you are forced to find other ways to show that you care.

You begin to understand that just a simple “I’m thinking of you” can carry a well of emotion with it. You find other ways to be generous. Those acts are enough because they are all you can give. And they help you realize that the best you can give, even if it’s just a few words to ease a burden, will always be enough.

Today’s guest post is from Kari at I left my heart at preschool. I intended on posting this last night, but I couldn’t think of what to say in this intro. I want to tell you how sweet and kind Kari is, because it’s true. That she is a good writer and friend. I want to tell you how adorable her girls are; how much prettier her blog is than mine and how I can’t wait to drink some wine with her at BlogHer this summer.

Mostly though, I want to just let her words speak for her. I think that is possibly the best thing to do. Please, please support this lovely friend of mine, because I think she could use some kindness right now.

Thanks, Issa

When Issa asked me to write a guest post, I was more than happy to help her out. Because what she is going through, how she just isn’t inspired to write a lot lately, I get it. I’ve actually been feeling the same way myself lately. The main reason I’ve personally been ignoring my blog lately, is because there’s something that I’ve wanted to write about for a long time now, it’s just been too jumbled up in my mind to come out as a coherent post. Also because it’s not something I’m comfortable posting on my own blog. Too many family and co-workers read my blog, and I’m not ready to get too naked in front of them at this point. So I guess I’m also taking this guest post as an opportunity to get naked in Issa’s backyard instead…thanks Issa!

My marriage sucks.

We’ve never had what you’d call an easy relationship, but the past few years especially, I feel like for every step forward we take, we end up taking a few steps backwards shortly after. To start at the very beginning would make this post the length of a novel…my husband and I have been married for eleven years, and have known each other for eighteen years in total. So I’ll start a few years after we were married. We hit a turning point in our marriage, where we easily could have split up before starting a family together – but ended up staying together. Sometimes I wonder if I stayed partially out of guilt. For quite a while before that point, when things were going badly in our relationship, I withdrew – almost entirely. But I felt like I had invested so much of my life into this relationship, with a man that I loved dearly – that I owed us both a chance to focus completely on making it work. And we did. We went to counseling, we decided to move closer to our families and we started our lives over again, so to speak. When things were solid in our marriage, we decided to start a family together.

We struggled every now and then, but we were able to keep working through our issues. There was, however, a strange undercurrent in our relationship that kept pulling us back to seemingly the same problems. So about a year ago, we decided to go to counseling again. I got a lot out of our counseling sessions, and I thought we grew as a couple because of them. I continued going on my own for a while after our couple sessions were over, which made a huge difference for me personally. Then, not too long after counseling, we were arguing over something that I cannot even remember – when he told me that he was unhappy in our relationship solely because I am overweight. According to him, this was the one thing that everything else hinged on, and the one thing that has kept him from being happy ever since we were married – so for the past ten years.

I was broken. I’m not even going to go into whether or not I feel that I am overweight – or the history of my weight in the time of our marriage – because I think it’s irrelevant. I was broken by the fact that something external was his entire basis for happiness with me. I was torn between wondering if I would do more damage to my kids by leaving, or by staying with someone who puts that much weight in weight. Pun intended.

I spent months being angry, and putting on even more weight – probably as my “F you” to him – I had decided that this was his problem, not mine. Eventually, I made peace with it. I finally told him how hurt I was. He told me about his hurt. I listened. He listened. We both agreed that we were essentially staying together for the kids. We both agreed that it wasn’t good for them or for us, to be unhappy together in our marriage. We both agreed that we’re not ready to give up. We both agreed that we have no idea how to make it better.

I put a lot of thought into how to make things better. He was just about to leave for a week long business trip, when I told him about one idea that I had. We would both write down five things that were really important to us, and the other person would try their best to do those things. Neither of us actually took pen to paper, but knowing at least one thing that is apparently THE most important thing to him, I set out to lose weight. In attempting to understand him, I was also able to feel more loving and accepting towards him. I wrote him a long letter and put it in his suitcase. He called me the day after he landed and told me it was the best card I’d ever given him. Finally, I felt like we were taking some steps forward.

It’s been hard keeping up my personal motivation, because I feel like since then, he has not acknowledged anything that I’ve done to try to make things better for us. I also feel like he has not been putting in any effort from his side. Maybe he has, and I haven’t seen it, just as he hasn’t seen any of my efforts.

Tonight, we got into another fight about our different parenting styles. He seems just as angry and unhappy as the day he first told me about how unhappy he really was, if not more. He said something about how there’s no point talking about anything, because nothing will ever change. I said if we can’t continue to talk about parenting, then what is the point of being together. I feel like the kids are better off, if we just parent them completely separately. He said he thinks that is what we are doing right now.

Three steps back. I wonder how many steps backwards are left, before we fall off the cliff. I feel like we’re so close, I can’t see how we can come back to safety.

I keep thinking about a plaque that a friend gave me recently. It says, “Faith is daring the soul to go, where the eyes cannot see.” I do have Faith. I’ve never lost it. I dare my heart and my mind, to keep going, even though I cannot see what is in front of me.

Today’s Guest is from Stacey at AnyMommy. Stacey, for those of you who have never been to her site, is capable of making me (and most anybody) laugh and cry in the same sentence. (Read below, or read any of her posts and you will understand.) Also, she wins the best Tweet award for the month: “Most embar Seattle moment: Waiter: Ma’am, 4 u, a coke? sprite? Me: No, I’d like huge top shelf margarita. Blank look. Me: Is the bar closed?“ For those of you who don’t know her, she is like 32 million weeks pregnant.

She’s a beautiful writer and friend. I tell her that she’s a great writer, because she is, all the time. My only compliant about her is she posts really early in the morning and I NEVER wake up early enough to get any points. Because yes, her posts have points too. I keep thinking if I tell her enough times what a great writer she is, she might float me a free couple of points. But so far, it ain’t workin.

But this post below is awesome and I’m blessed to be able to share it with you all. I have a post coming next week. With real words and all that jazz. I have more guests post coming too, but I am feeling the urge to write. Please be patient with me, while I find myself again. I hope you guys enjoy these guest posts, because I am loving them.

Different Worlds

She walks toward me quickly, with a huge smile, and hugs me tightly, “Oh, I knew you’d be here. I’ve been reading your blog. I think it’s wonderful that you’re walking for Maddie.”

I am thrown off balance, stiff and awkward in my disorientation. The field is swept by a constant cold wind, but bright with sunshine. The purple balloons tied to my triple stroller dance crazily. My kids happily eat free doughnuts provided by the March of Dimes, their cheeks sticky and chapped red by the wind. She turns to them, her warmth and enthusiasm prick at my heart. “And here are Ess and Gee and Cue,” she rattles off their names without hesitation. “They are gorgeous!”

“Thank you. It’s great to see you here.” I don’t know her name and my brain is in a tail-spin panic. I should know it, we aren’t friends exactly, but our kids went to the same co-op school in different years. We’ve chatted a lot at book club meetings. Also, she’s lovely and I really enjoy talking to her. I should know her name in such a way that asking is not an option. It’s more than just being poor at names, or being a social ditz, it’s that some where deep down I feel I should know her the way she knows me, that I’ve failed some how.

I know she has a daughter a little older than my three-year-olds. I know her little girl was born prematurely and struggled to live for weeks. I can’t remember her daughter’s name either. She told the whole story at a quiet restaurant table with just three or four of us left after a book club meeting. That was maybe six months ago and I haven’t seen her since.

She has seen me, though, here in my other world, where the mirror sometimes only lets people look in at me, as though I sit under a barren light at an interrogation table, gazing at my own reflection while those on the outside watch my movements for clues.

“I loved your last post, the one where you think about Cue at the pool while you’re rocking him. It touched my heart.”

“Thank you so much,” I answer. “I love writing that blog, it means a lot to me that people read it.” I want to say so much more, I want my three restless children and the windy field to melt away for a few minutes. I want to take her hands and lead her to a little table and buy her a coffee. I want to ask her, tell me, please tell me, what do you think about when you rock your little girl to sleep? But, the walk is about to start and the rest of my team is waving at me from the other side of the open space and all three of my kids are asking me something and someone is asking her a question because she wears a volunteer t-shirt. So, I give her another quick hug and surreptitiously wipe the strange, inappropriate tears from my eyes.

“See you later.”