I have been resistant to this space, my own blog. It was set up and managed by someone I don’t wish to engage with, or remember. I am triggered here. This blog is a historical reminder of a life I lived with someone else; someone I loved that I no longer love.
What do I do? Do I abandon this space, and all its complexity, and leave it to the weevils of internet who will keep it alive but not breathing, for eternity? Do I give it a partial resuscitation and gentle hospital visits, with innocuous recipe updates and frilly opinion pieces? Do I commit and dedicate to making it a garden of thoughts and ideas, or does that need a new, uncontaminated space?
My instinct is to obliterate it, but the idea makes me sad and weak. Then, when I put on my wetsuit of bravado, this blog becomes what it sounds like, a bog with an ‘l’ inside it. I want to be cleaner than it makes me feel. But my own words are my reckoner. Even just thinking about it makes me tired and grumpy.
I am scared to go back to posts that remind me of how innocent I was. I am enraged to think about that version of myself. Unlike photographs that can be torn up, or digitally deleted, this space, this place, this literal legacy remains even if I don’t visit it.
Am I trapped in Megan’s Head?