Maybe if you weren’t so depressed and negative all the time you’d have “real life” friends. She didn’t need to add the quotes in there for me to get that, I know she meant it by the way she said it. Real life, not Internet people. Words full of anger. Words full of hurt. More meaning behind them, then anything she has said to me in a year. This friend of mine. Supposed friend, I should say. This person who is supposed to know me. Supposed to be my friend for life. This woman who I’ve known since pre-school, isn’t really my friend anymore.

I am too negative for her. I am too depressed for her. She, like my soon to be ex-husband, wishes I could be that woman who I was before. Before miscarriages. Before depression. Before separation. Before.

The people who were supposed to be there for me forever, just want me to be someone I’m not. They want me to fake it. To pretend I am okay.

I can’t. It hurts to think that I am not enough for anyone. That I am too much to deal with. That I’m very much alone. That the people, the friends I’ve known forever, the ones I considered family, don’t really want to know me anymore. If I think about it too long, it hurts to breath. It’s more than I can comprehend.

I’m not that girl anymore, the girl she wants me to be. She no longer exists. That girl I once was is gone. In her place is a woman who is stronger than she believes she is. (Or so my best friends keep telling me. ahem.) A woman who does everything for anyone. A woman who continues to get out of bed, no matter how much she doesn’t want too. That woman is me. That girl? Isn’t.

The truth is, it’s not just her. I’ve lost most of my supposed friends in the past year. I feel like I’ve lost some readers/some friends because of what I post. I get it, I’m depressing. I’m no fun to read. It’s okay. I’ve pushed some people away I think, because I don’t have enough in me to give most day. I’m doing the best I can. My best just may not be good enough.

Real life friends. Shit. My real life friends don’t actually want to know me. Real life. Like the friends I’ve made online aren’t real. Whatever.

I don’t have to see people every day, for them to be true friends. If I’ve learned anything in the past year, it would be that. True friends don’t fit in some tiny little box. At least not in my world.

In her world? I guess they do. I guess I’ve fallen out of that box. It’s killing me. But I can’t change it. I don’t even want to change it. However, it does make me unbelievably sad.

Want to know the truth? Without the friends I’ve made online, I’d have no friends. None. In some ways, that terrifies me. In other ways, I’m comforted by the fact that I do have the greatest friends known to man. The greatest, most caring, most amazing friends I could ever hope for. Some of them…some of you are better friends than I’ve ever had. Truly.

Is it different? Yes. Is different always bad? No.

I have friends who I can text/email/IM/call any time of day. I have friends who check in on me if they haven’t seen me around. I have two of the best friends in the world.Friends who have held me together the past few months. I don’t know that I could ever repay them for it.

What I know is this: tomorrow morning I’m flying to visit friends. Amazing friends. Friends that I met online. Friends who are okay with me, as I am. Friends who love me and support me and hold my hand whenever I need it.

This is what true friendship is.

I’ve been doing this a long time. Two and a half years this go round, two years the first time. I took an 18 month break in between. (Which had absolutely nothing to do with this community and everything to do with my family issues in the moment.) That is pretty much ancient in blogger years. I’ve watched a ton of amazing bloggers shut down. I’ve seen people just disappear. I’ve made friends, lost friends. I’ve been treated like I don’t exist, I’ve treated others that way I’m sure and I know I said somethings over the years that I wish I could take back.

This is a big community. A great big, amazingly awesome community. It also has it’s downfalls. Just like anything, I suppose.

I have, in the past week, read six different posts about people who feel left out. People who were saying they don’t get included. People saying that they don’t get comments, that they don’t get invited to events, that there is no way for them to have the friendships that some of us do. On Twitter, it’s the ever popular emu attitude: no one talks to me, no one responds to me, no one is reading my post. I guess, I’ll just go because I’m not really here.

Can I be honest here for a second? It’s driving me freaking insane. I am  tired of it. Seriously, I’ve seen all of this in the past week.

I want to scream at people, this is not High School. This community is what you make of it. You find your people, if you are genuine and patient and friendly. It does not necessarily come easy. You surly can’t expect it to happen.

But the jealous, poor pitiful me, I am so unpopular and nobody likes me posts are annoying. It reminds me of that song, nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms. My five year old likes to sing that song…mostly to taunt her big sister. She’s generally holding out a worm as she sings it.

Those posts were annoying five years ago and they are still annoying today. Maybe it was BlogHer selling out of tickets last week, that has made all of that talk start. Maybe it’s something else. I’m not really sure. I don’t think all of us should not be allowed to talk about BlogHer though, because other people don’t like it.

It’s made me pull back a bit this week. It, along with some other things have made me a little gun shy. Gave me a bit of writer’s block. I think the reason is because I’m wanting to say some things that may make me very unpopular. It’s okay. I don’t mind. I am tired of being nice and ignoring it.

Obligations. Big bloggers. Small bloggers. Popular. Interesting words that seem to be thrown around a lot lately. Especially in the past week or so. Loralee wrote an amazing post on the subject at BlogHer this week. It’s well worth the read. Her previous one was on jealousy, which I found even more interesting. Truly the comments over there are enlightening.

Personally, I think that people expect too much. You start a blog, you comment elsewhere, you hope people comment on your blog. You start a Twitter account and chat with people, but somehow they still don’t come and read your blog. I can’t tell you why. I can tell you that you can’t expect it to happen. You can’t force it to happen. You can’t force online friendships. If you try, you just come off as whiny and annoying.

I have been accused of being elitist this week. I’ve lost a friendship, because I wasn’t willing to let something go that I felt wasn’t okay. I’ve also been made to feel guilty, for basically being me. Each of those things, by a different person. I guess I could take it really personally. Some would. Mostly it made me wonder about what peoples expectations of me were. It made me wonder who feels I’m obligated to do things, because I have tons of ‘friends’ online. It made me wonder, if people feel that I owe them something, then imagine how many people someone like Her Bad Mother or Redneck Mommy or say Dooce have thinking that they are somehow owed.

I don’t know that I have any answers for that. I can however, tell you what I know.

Making friends online? Takes time. Just like in real life. Because guess what? This is real life. You will click with some people, you won’t with others. Some will think that they “know” you, because of what you share online. That doesn’t necessarily make it true.

I blog because I love to write. I love the online community that I’ve found. I adore the friends that I’ve made. I love commenting, I love comments.

I comment on “popular” blogs. I comment when I want too. I don’t when I don’t. I comment when I have something to say. I comment on some, because I’ve been reading them forever. I do not expect a return comment. If some of them read my words over here, that is great. Do I tweet at people who never tweet back at me, yes. I do. I tweet at people who don’t follow me. I’m okay with it. I only say something, if I have something to say. I also happen to be very wordy.

I also comment on blogs that no one else reads….yet. I only read people, if I want too.  I read some blogs that I never comment on. I sometimes comment on blogs that I don’t have in my reader.

I have trouble keeping up with my reader. I have friends on Twitter whose blogs I don’t read. I have trouble reading what my friends write, much less being able to physically read every blog written by someone who comments or tweets at me. It is not possible.

I have a lot of online friends. I have a lot of online acquaintances. There is a difference.

I have friends who I could text, email or call at anytime. However some of those people? I can go weeks without talking too. My friend Kari and I can literally go weeks without talking. However, I’ll be sharing a bed with her at BlogHer in August. She is someone I’d call to help me hide a body, if the need every came up. It’s just life. She’s busy, I’m busy. I know where she is though, if I needed her.

I have two friends, best friends, who I talk to all the dang time. They mean the world too me. I don’t know what I’d do without them. I would do just about anything for them. The fact that we happened to meet online, stopped mattering long ago. It took me a long time to find them though.

I am going to BlogHer this summer because I want to see my friends. A lot of people say they think BlogHer is so clique. I was there last year, I didn’t see that. What I saw was people spending time with their friends. I went up to many big name bloggers and said hi. Every single one of them was nice too me. I introduced myself to many people who had no idea who I was. I was thrilled when some people did know who I was.

The people who came home and complained? I truly feel that they expected too much. They also expected people to not want to spend time with their friends and only spend time meeting new people. It’s never going to be that way. Some of us will only see our friends this one weekend a year. Think about that for a second before you take it all so personally.

I was nice to every single person who came up and talked too me. I still spent the majority of time with my friends. But hey, I made new friends while there too.

I use Twitter to talk to my friends. I would not expect anyone else to use Twitter in any way, than how they want too.

Just because you come here and read my words, doesn’t mean you know me. You know parts of me, yes. I share more than some people do. It still doesn’t mean you should expect me to do anything, except be a decent human being. It also doesn’t mean that you can come and tell me what to do, or how to be online. I’m a Taurus. I don’t like being told what to do. If we are friends, or you comment often, I love hearing your opinion. But the random people who show up and like to tell me what I should be doing? Are not okay. It’s just not okay.

Here’s the thing I guess I’m going to end this long rambly post with. We are all adults. Adults with lives offline. Spouses, children, jobs, responsibilities. You can’t expect this to be people’s only life. Those few people, who get paid enough to call this their job, are few and far between. It still doesn’t mean they are obligated in some way to each person who reads their words. Blogging by in large is still a hobby.

This community is great. I don’t know where I’d be without it. I’ve spent a lot of years in it. But it is what you make of it. It is not High School. It’s not. Those who act like it is, need to realize it is them who believes it is. It is them who makes it feel that way.

I worried. Worried about sharing my story with the world. I worried so much that I didn’t sleep the night before it was posted. At all.

When Maggie said, it’s your turn, are you ready, I said yes. Not because I really was though. It’s been six months since I wrote that post. I have wondered when my turn came, if I’d say no or yes, for six long months. Not a day went by without me wondering. Truth? Any other time, any other week in between the day I sent it to her and Sunday, I may have said no. On Sunday, in that moment, I said okay. Then I didn’t sleep.

I hid all day yesterday. I may hide more. I am afraid. I am vulnerable and that scares me. I put my deepest darkest secrets out into the world and it terrifies me. It shouldn’t. I’ve shared other things and you all have supported me. I have read each and every comment over there. Everyone has been sweet and kind. I’m still scared. This is different. This? I wish I didn’t even have to know, much less share it with everyone.

Six months ago I wrote that post. I wrote it because I was triggered. I wrote it because I had too. It was time. Time to be honest. Time to stop stuffing it. Time to learn to deal with it. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. I didn’t think I was strong enough to post it. I was grateful when Maggie said, it could be months before it goes up. I’m still not sure I’m strong enough to talk about it. I hit send that day, sent it to Maggie for VU, because a friends bravery made me think I may be strong enough.Then, because I was hysterical and needed to be talked of a ledge, I sent it to someone else. Then? I had to deal with it.

I’ve been in therapy ever since then. First to deal with the that, then to deal with my current situation. Both in fact. YAY me. Sigh.

I’ve been on the edge of tears for two days now. I can’t even tell you for sure why I’m writing this. Maybe its because writing helps me. Maybe it’s because I have a knack for feeling like I should explain or apologize. Maybe??? Who knows.

I apologize often. For everything. For nothing. For things I perceive to be failures on my part. For things I perceive that I’ve said badly. It annoys some people. I’ve actually lost friends because of it. I eventually have to tell friends, I say I’m sorry often, but I swear to you, I never say it if I don’t mean it. It’s just that I always feel I need to say I’m sorry about something.

It’s one of the many things that I do because of my childhood. I know this. I’ve been told this in therapy. Will I ever stop doing it? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure that it matters. There are other things. Some small, some major. The thing is, it changed who I would become. From seven years old, I became a little adult. I had no choice. My choice was taken away.

You think you can stuff it away. That if you don’t talk about it, it isn’t real. That as long as you get up and live your life, you’ve done okay. I believed for years that as long as I protected my kids one day, none of this mattered. It isn’t true though. It changed me. Not dealing with it changed me. Dealing with it, these past six months has changed me again.
I thought I’d feel better sharing. Thought it would free me in some way. Make it somehow easier. Maybe in a day or two, or a week or two, this will be the case.

I’m worried. Worried that what I shared is too much. Worried that I burdened you all.

Mostly though, I’m scared. Scared that this forever changes how you will look at me, think about me. Others have shared and I have not felt different about them at all. Not in the least. I’ve always wondered if that’s because I understand. Because I get it. I get them. However, I’m still scared. Exposed. Tired. Scared.

She says this to me last night, like it’s supposed to mean something to me. Like it should somehow be comforting. Have faith. My mom knows better, but she says it anyway.

It doesn’t comfort me. In reality, it annoys me.

I don’t. I don’t have faith. I don’t see how saying that in a situation is very helpful. I don’t see why bad things keep happening to good people. How I’m supposed to have faith that it will just somehow turn out okay. How I’m supposed to believe that there is some grander plan. How I’m not supposed to just think that it all sucks and life is unfair.

Why can criminals and crackheads have babies that they will just abuse and neglect and eventually leave broken for someone else to deal with, but good, honest, hard working, caring people can’t seem to have a baby to save their life?

How does praying for something, like people surviving the earthquake in Haiti make any difference? Isn’t it more effective to give money, to give blood, to try and help in some way? Is praying better than sending money for food? Does it feed starving kids? Does it make people stop bleeding or able to climb out of the wreckage? No. It doesn’t. THIS, what my friend Stacey is doing, is something that helps. Something that makes a difference. It may seem small, it may even be small in comparison to the whole picture, but it makes more sense to me that just having faith.

How is it some grander plan, for Heather and Mike to have lost Maddie? They are amazing people. Great people who deserved better. They deserve that baby girl they had last week, so much so. She is a great gift to the world. Beautiful baby Annie. However, they deserved Maddie too. Annie deserved Maddie too. They are good people, who deserved both of those baby girls. THIS, their foundation in Maddie’s name is something concrete that helps.

How does faith help? How does prayer help? Why do people say it like it should help? Doing, acting, helping in concrete ways helps more in my eyes.

How am I supposed to have faith, when Anissa had a major stroke, after spending years fighting with everything in her to save Peyton? It’s not fair. It’s not something that makes sense to me.

Have faith? I’m supposed to have faith that my life will one day make sense? That somehow I will someday find it okay that the only man I’ve ever loved, the man I still love, no longer loves me?

I’m supposed to have faith when my great auntie, the one I told you about earlier this week has to have a double mastectomy on Monday? How is that fair? How is any of it fair? How does having faith help any of that? 92 years old and she should have to deal with this too? It’s not fair. It’s not right. I have no faith. I don’t believe that she did anything to deserve this. I don’t believe that it’s some greater plan.

I do believe in her. I came to that conclusion last night. I don’t have faith. But I believe in my Aunt Bernice. I believe she is strong and stable and one of the greatest women I’ve ever known in my life. I know she will be okay, because she plans on being okay. Because she plans on spoiling her two newest great-grand-children when they are born in March. Because she plans on going on a Disney cruise in Spring 2012. Because she’s stubborn enough for me to believe she will make it. I believe in her. That’s all I’ve got to hold onto in that situation.

The funny thing is, I believe in god. I do. I don’t however, believe that god is some big guy in a chair, dictating what we all do and what happens to each of us. I believe in free will way too much to buy that. I believe that something happens after you die. I don’t however, know what that is. Do I believe in heaven and hell? No, not really. But I don’t believe that you are dead and that’s it. I believe in angels. Might seem silly, but I do.

Besides that though, I don’t know what I believe in. Just blindly having faith that it will be okay? Not something I can do. I will worry every single second between now and next Monday afternoon, when I hear that she came out of surgery okay. Because that is all I can do. That and let her know that I love her. That my kids and I adore her and love her, today and forever.

Have faith, she tells me….well sorry, but I don’t. I can’t. It’s just not that easy for me.

I have always been good at faking it. Faking being fine. Faking having fun. Faking, faking, faking. I am gifted at it. It’s a life long thing for me. I am so great at it, that sometimes? Sometimes I even fool myself. It was how I got through childhood. It was easier for me to be like that then to deal with my emotions. I was the good kid. Invisible when need be. The voice of reason. The peace maker. The responsible one. Always.

The problem is, I am tired of faking it. It’s too much work. Way more energy then I have right now. I am struggling to just make it. To make sure my kids make it. To get out of bed each day. I have nothing left.

I get up every day and do what I need to do. I take care of myself. I take care of my kids. My house is mostly clean, the laundry is done, the dog is fed and well cared for and there are meals made each day. I have showered each day. I have been and will keep going to therapy. I swear, I am taking my meds. I haven’t fallen of any cliffs.

But I’m tired of faking it.

You want to know the truth? The truth is my husband says he hasn’t loved me in over a year and a half. Our son isn’t even that old yet. I thought he needed space, time, to grow up or something. I was going to suggest he move out for a few weeks. He has already brought up divorce.

The truth is, I had to tell my girls about this myself, because he couldn’t be bothered to find a time to do so. He thought I’d just lie to them about where he was, until he made time for it. While it might have been easier, it wasn’t the right thing to do. Telling them, helping them deal, giving them space to rage and cry and be angry, is the right thing to do.

The truth is, I don’t have it in me to read posts, to comment, to play on Twitter or even really to play bejeweled. Instead of that? I spent half the day making a ‘Best Of’ page on this blog. Not that it was really any easier to read old happy posts of my own either. But that’s what I did today.

The truth is that I’m overwhelmed. That I started crying last Friday night at Liz’s house and haven’t fully stopped since then. I know I CAN do this. I know I WILL do this. But it’s scary. And big. And hard.

Somehow I have to learn to deal with the fact that the life I’ve had since I was fourteen years old, the life I had with him is over. My life, my kids life isn’t over. But that life, that true love that I had, or thought I had, is over.

All that’s left is my pain and my inability to fake it. Sadly, that is one of his main issues with me. I guess I have become to real. Too real for him. So here we are. This is my new life. That’s my truths and I just can’t fake it anymore.

The truth is that I’m heart broken. My heart is crushed. Gone. I can’t fake otherwise. Instead? I’m going to try to deal with it. To be sad. To grieve. To try to rebuild my broken heart. Because that seems somehow easier than faking it.