Lifelit?

Image from here

We seem to like to classify things into neat buckets. There are a gazillion sites and Facebook pages for decluttering and reordering, we spend so much time reorganising our stuff rather than reorganising our selves.

Books breathe new light into dull spaces. For a long time all I read was chicklit. Books with pastel coloured covers about women overcoming their latest breakup to go on, do amazing things and get the guy (and usually wear nice clothes and lose weight on the way – score!). Nowadays I love a bit of miserylit…books that pull-apart trauma and from page to page I get to watch them piece it all back together. Im sure someone somewhere wrote something about learning from people when they are at their worst.

I can remember one crappy winter afternoon sitting on the step between the hallway and my kitchen in a little rented house I lived in with my daughter. She was still only a few months old so was having two sleeps a day. Those sleeps would kill me. I felt trapped in the house, I felt the walls closing in on me. I’d wander from room to room willing her to wake, for us both to pull on big jumpers and cute beanies and go walking in the crisp air. I’d lie in hot, scorching baths, refilling the water every time it would cool down trying to work out what would happen next. The loneliness was loud.

If I’d had a blog all those years ago it wouldnt have been a nice place to visit, I wouldnt think twice about editing myself before I wrote it all down. It would be a rambling tale of darkness, of words that danced through my head that I thought would always be around but in looking back they did vanish. They just needed time and healing to slowly go away.

Theres been a lot of talk this week about the way people comment online. The vitriol and bullying behaviours of others making judgement on other peoples lives. Im glad I didnt have a blog then, that I didn’t invest the time in sharing with others the blips of my late 20s. The safety of doing it old school, in a little notepad tucked under my pillow was perfect. I didnt get judged and I didnt get hurt, more.

Theres a space between commenting and criticising. My friend Anna pointed out that it isnt just mummy bloggers that find that. It happens everywhere – its just more obvious online.

Theres a space between sadness and happiness. Its called life. No judgement.

How would you deal with people commenting on your life, your views?