Years ago, in a different relationship, I kept a journal. I found that I usually wrote in it when things were bad, when I needed to vent and say what had already been said in the context of an argument, or a discussion, or a we-need-to-talk moment, but had fallen on deaf ears. It was private, but I didn’t hide it. And one day, someone read it. Yes, it was mine, and my business, and my privacy was violated. That was all said in the course of the argument — the argument that was started when he confronted me with what he had read. When he put me on the defensive.

The relationship with that person ultimately ended. But something came out of that incident that changed me forever. To this day, I now write as though someone else is going to read it. And in the context of a personal journal or diary, that borders on the ridiculous.

In the context of a blog, however, it becomes obvious. Of course someone is going to read it. That’s what it’s there for. You want people to visit. Whether it’s to expand your ego or expand your horizons, you’re doing this for a reason. You’re putting yourself out there. And people better darn well read you.

Yet I still do the same thing. I hold back.

I’m going through a rough spot these days. Blue days tend to turn into blue weeks as different issues present themselves fast and furious. And I’m dealing with them, one by one. Nothing I can’t handle, nothing, truly, to worry about. Just life — the normal life of the normal person on the normal mid-life diet of Zoloft and Zocor.

Yet I don’t write about it. Not all of it. And I don’t because of what you might think. Not about the problems themselves, but about the fact that you might get tired of the whine, of the angst, of the meh. I know I do. And it’s my meh.

I still don’t write it in a private journal, even though I have no reason to worry that it’ll be read by anyone other than myself. And I don’t write it here.

So what about you? How much of “you” do you put out “here”?

And where do you put the rest?

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