What I don't blog about

Hello there, this is the VERY FIRST, of a New Feature on my blog.  If you look up, you will see.  "YOU WRITE HERE"  a page, that gives you, as a friend, follower, fellow blogger, non writer, an option.  An option to get it off your chest.  Step out of your box even if it's just some imaginary rules you have cornered yourself into.  Go read it, it will bring you right back here.  To a post by a very brave, very honest, very lovely woman who needed a place to write what she can't in other places.

xo

PEACHOUT

This writer wishes to remain anonymous 

Legal Disclaimer stuff: The views, thoughts, choices or opinions on this post are those of an author who wishes to have anonymity and not necessarily those of ThePeachy1 


I do not blog about work. The fear of being found out and the need to
go through entire archive. Or worse, the need to kill this, my life's
work. (I can hear you snicker. But sometimes it feels exactly like so
to me. Actually, I lied. It is not sometimes. It is always...)

I do not blog about my co-workers. Even though one of them causes a
lot of stress for me, and it would have been a great release for my
mental anguish to "talk" about it, I still desperately need his (and
everybody else and their uncle's) acceptance and approval. You wonder
how bad it is? How about this: My co-workers have managed to make me
feel ashamed of my PhD degree and therefore I stop bringing it up when
people ask me about my credentials. When I think about it, WTF. Srly.

I do not say much about my siblings and their families because they do
not speak the language in which I write this blog in and I feel it is
unfair to do so.

I do not talk about my friends in real life because well, I have none.
LOL. In fact, my really really good friends and friends that I feel I
can trust? I have told them about my blog. So far only TWO of them
actually read my blog. What does it say about me and my friends and
our relationships that when I repeatedly sent them emails wth the URL
to my blog, they do not even click on it? I assume they are busy. Or
that they are just not into reading stuff online. I get that and I
respect that. However, it does puzzle me that one friend particularly
seemed to go out of her way to ignore the words that came out of my
mouth, "I have a blog." Pause. She just ignored it, as if she did not
hear what I had just said, then carried on with our conversation.

I do not blog about "dirty laundries".

I do not blog about things I heard when inside my "cultural circle"
said by my people. I do not blog about how my  friends ask me
what Americans eat at home and make faces when I tell them what I make
for dinner if I am home early enough to make dinners. I do not blog
about how ridiculous I think it is that after being in this country
for decades that many of them still think that bread is not as filling
as rice and that sandwiches are exotic, unhealthy, food.

Because that would totally play to the stereotypes and undermine the "cause".

I do not blog about the happy moments in my life. Well, not too much
anyway. I use this blog as my therapy coach and when you are seeing
your shrink, what's the point if you are all happy and content? I see
my contribution to you all as the blog that does not make you feel
shit(tier) about your life and the woman who has more issues (or at
least, just as many).

I do not blog about how awesome I think I am. How gorgeous. How
charming. Because it really is 50-50. And I do come tumbling down from
the highs almost as soon as I declare myself to be perfect just the
way I am.

I do not blog about my in-laws. Again. In case one day THIS is found
out. More importantly, my husband reads my blog and he takes great
offense to any slight jab at his mother. I only wish my children put
me on a pedestal as such when they are older.

I do not blog about however hard I try, I cannot be convinced of the
concept of Immaculate Conception and Jesus Christ, and how I wonder
how any devout Christian can without irony and self-awareness make fun
of Scientologists. Just wait for a few hundred years, I sometimes
think, you never know.

I do not talk about how I worry for my children's attending religious
education because one of them seems to be especially susceptible to
authority figures and doctrines. I do not voice my concern because I
believe that THIS will be one of the things that create an irreparable
fissure in my marriage.

I also do not blog about how I sometimes wonder whether I should have
given this whole inter-faith thing much more thoughts before I said
yes. I did not realize that it would have become a point of discomfort
at least for me. Or about how I sometimes think WTF because it was not
made clear to me that he would have taken such a strong stance when it
comes to our children's religious upbringing even though he himself is
a twice-a-year-Catholic and making sure the kids attend Religious Ed,
Ash Wednesday, misc. special masses has somehow, ironically, become my
responsibility.

I do not blog how fortunate I am that my husband takes care of me and
helps out after all day of hard work. How I feel appreciated and loved
and protected. How I feel pampered because my husband buys me shit.
Because that would have been lying.

I do not blog about the ONE thing that causes strife and stress in our
family. Chores. Division of labor. I know I should. It would have
helped some other women out there who are also struggling with this,
to know that they are not alone. It would be an exercise in futility I
know that in my heart. Nothing is going to change. And I have learned
to live with it. I think. I did not however relinquish my right to
bitch.

I do not blog about how I cringe when reading posts about other
people's husbands. Where did they find them? "Model Husband
Warehouse"?

I do not blog about how for an itty bitty tiny moment I wish women who
brag about their husbands and their happy marriage ill and then very
quickly I am disgusted by myself. I have learned to simply skip those
posts and sometimes the entire blog.

I do not blog about the fights I've had with my husband even though I
feel that I should because I always wonder whether I am the only one
who's worried that it's all going to the dogs.

I do not blog about how I actually wonder whether it would have been
better with someone who has found "god" or a mountain man or a strong
but silent carpenter/plumber/handyman since they all seem so calm and
patient and I bet they don't yell at their wives.

I do not blog about how I am not sure whether this time would be the
last time I put up with the short fuse, the quick to anger, the lack
of patience. About how I devote 50% of my energy in preventing a
blow-up, making sure to phrase my questions and announcements of
household repair needs in the right way so we could solve the issues
rather than waste time on an argument over how my tone is picking a
fight.

I do not blog about how I can't call myself a feminist because I
simmer but I bite my tongue. I let "it" go whenever the 30-second
storm is over even though now it takes me an hour to get over having a
voice raised at me.

I do not blog about the fact I smirk behind his back even though I
manage to bite my tongue.

I do not blog about how I scream my retort back in silence inside my
head so loudly that I have a headache all the time when I bite my
tongut because I secretly think I am the more mature one in our
relationship.

I do not blog about all of this because I don't want people to think,
Oh, she puts up with this because she is, you know, from another culture, further
reinforcing the stereotype of submissive and subservient little women
that devote themselves to pleasing their husbands.

I do not blog about how I buy shit for myself as retaliation. Or,
actually, since I bring in a substantial amount of income, I am
entitled to buying shit for myself for no reason at all.

I do not blog about my sex life becasue in order to write about
something, you need to have it first.

I do not blog about how one night when I asked my husband how come we
don't do it like when we started dating and we had sex almost every
day and he said "Because we have each gained 40 lbs.", I turned around
and wept silently into the pillow.

I do not blog about how I have strangely come to terms with the idea
that I may never ... again [omitted for modesty]. Hello, right hand.
Actually, I don't even bother with that any more.

I do not blog about how I actually thought about joining some cult
that demands chastity: since I am not going to have any, I may as well
get a sainthood out of it, right?

I do not blog about how on some days stepping off the train track as
the train is barrling down to the station feels easier than carrying
on. Or how the lights from the oncoming traffic beckon at me like the
fire that lures the moth.

I do not blog about how the movie Sunshine Cleaning has banished those
thoughts from my head.

I do not blog about these. But I write about them inside my head. I
write out an entire post and then I squeeze my eyes tight to erase it.

When I open my eyes again, I forget how fucked up all this is and I
carry on my merry little ways.