I bet you haven’t noticed, but my posting has been light ever since St. Patrick’s Day. And impersonal. The truth is, the day before St. Pats I found out a certain ex-friend from my past was following this blog and instantly started feeling beyond uncomfortable. I desperately seeked out on twitter a way to block this blog from their view. However, I noticed after posting my frustration on Twitter, she instantly seemed to recoil, my subscribers going down one person within 24 hours. Of course instantly I realized this probably means she was following me on Twitter (as I do not believe in coincidence) for whatever reason… honestly, I have no idea. But I should have realized that someone was watching.
Cut to: me laughing hilarious and tweeting about the story about my friend running into a certain ex-boyfriend’s mother at work. She was telling her coworker, who suspects her boyfriend is cheating on her, about my previous situation in her most colorful language, and it when she turned to ring in a customer, she realized that customer was his Mom. Alyssa being Alyssa obviously didn’t make the situation any better, and that’s why I love her. But of course, me tweeting this instantly go construed at me calling those names, which–I guess I was. But I was also just telling a story (all names excluded).
I’ve had my share of crazy-ex-girlfriend-I-miss-the-past moments. Discovering his and her twitter’s and occasionally readying through them would probably be high on that list. And so naturally I would discover her discovery of what I said, and all hell breaking loose.
Here’s the thing though: I was telling a story, via twitter, without using any names. But because someone sees it necessary to still keep track of my life–for whatever reason–then I am suddenly a bad, horrible person. Yes, Twitter makes it so easy to internet-stalk someone especially when you still feel smarted by what happened. Every time I check my exes Twitter I feel silly because it means I still miss him. And I’ll admit that out loud. I miss him. I miss the boy who was my best friend. I wish I did miss him. I wish I didn’t still want him to be my friend. Hell I can even admit there are some days where I miss her as a friend and wish there was a way to change what happened. It’s going to be a long time before these wounds fully heal. But if we’re going by statistics, and who has “won” in his whole situation, I don’t see the need why she has to keep track of what I am doing, or why she even cares. I’m the broken hearted, bruised one here. A little crazy is in order.
So what I mean to say through the incredibly long winded story, is that if you find me not writing as much here it’s because I’m scared of whatever eyes may be watching. It’s not that I want to be censored–after all, this was my space long before all hell broke loose–but now suddenly it seems like there is an audience watching, one very much unwanted. Maybe that will mean finding a new home (though, I can’t believe to imagine that)… but something will need to sadly need to change. It’s just too hard to feel like you can be honest when you feel like it’s going to be used to prove how awful of a person you are compared to someone else. And really, I’m my best own-worst-critic. I don’t need someone else competing for the job.
I’m so tired of drama. I just want to be able to say what I want to say, without feeling like I’m back in high school.