Today is my 3rd bloggiversary, meaning that I have been now doing this nightly bloviating for THREE YEARS. It’s amazing how things never end up how you planned, how they morph into such delightful creatures unrecognizable from their previous incarnations.
Three years ago tonight, I put my first regular entry into these pages, and although I’d posted a few sporadic, desperate evenings in 2001, I made a pact with myself that this would be different. I was going to chart the way Celexa addled my brain, but even in the first week, I got so wildly off-topic that it began to seem a little stupid to limit the blog to such dreary science as my own neurons.
At the time, I was in rough shape. I had not gotten over September 11, still paralyzed and quaking with fear of what horrors might lay in store, and rage at the people who had laid waste to my city. In essence, I had classic Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is something (as a mediocre psych major) I could have told myself if I’d been able to think straight.
PTSD is a funny thing. I remember on the day itself, I wasn’t scared at all, just living off the incredible buzz that enveloped downtown. There was death all around us and rumors of close escapes, but I had just carried a family’s luggage up the West Side Highway in order to find their son, and knew I was Living in History. It wasn’t until October and November that the meat began to slide out of my sandwich.
These pages were borne out of a desperate desire to get better. In many ways, the combination of drugs, therapy and this web site has led me out of that fray, allowed me to ask Tessa to marry me, actually have it happen, and then, you know, someday, have this baby that has been in our bellies for about 9.2 months. The bitching and moaning, the post-election horror, the occasional utter despondency of making an independent film, and my garden-variety bleak existentialism all have a release valve on these pages.
The “comments” button was added by my brother Steve in October 2003, and without it, I probably would have stopped writing this a while ago. All of the regulars who come by, including the lurkers who occasionally say something utterly brilliant, you continue to electrify a connection to the outside world that I thought would have been lost by now to age and inertia. Of course, I wish a few more of you had your own blogs so I wasn’t the only one hanging brain around here, but not everyone can whore out their privacy like I do.
Which is another big change in this blog over the last three years. I’m no dooce, but with the several thousand folks coming here each week, I can’t do any of the following:
– use full names of anyone who could kick my ass
– talk about SSRI-related sexual dysfunction
– say anything about either of our families that they haven’t said about themselves
– discuss anyone I ever hope to work with
– run for Congress
I used to be so cavalier in these pages, back when nobody except my mom was reading, back when I had no idea about the power of Google. But with infinite searchability, and the fact that everything on here is cached on some hard drive in Nevada, I’m not worried anymore. So I don’t get to be a Senator. So I can’t say half the things I really feel. The blog does its job, even though it has been getting harder to contemplate each weeknight.
I dream of a day when I can hand the blog over to three or four other people, when we can all write a little bit each week and have some sort of community. Keep the name, but vary the content as I try to warm up bottles for the as-yet-born Peanut. Such a blogtopia could be in the future, but for now, I’d like to thank everyone for suffering through my belly-gazing horseshit and for helping me get through the last three years.
And to the nature of blogging itself: not quite a diary, not quite a therapist, not quite entertainment, not quite satisfying, and yet all of those at once.