I don't know what it is lately, I just don't seem to have it in me to blog much anymore. When I first started this whole thing, missing a day could pretty much send me in a tailspin of guilt whenever I failed to post. But lately when walking through my living room, I've barely given a glance to the silent computer sitting over in the corner like a delinquent child being punished for having done wrong.

Half of me wants to write, wanting to tell you every mundane detail of how I spent my day, or what I thought as I was driving home from work, or something interesting I saw, like the pond yesterday that was covered with a very thin veil of ice that seemed like a whisper across its surface, and how the tall oak trees looked like sentries surrounding it, their gnarled branches blanketed by a covering of freshly fallen snow. And how if I had had my camera packed away inside my car, I would have stopped, to walk halfway between the road, the trees and the pond to take a picture, capturing the feeling of that moment in the lens of my camera, so that you could see what I saw and find yourself amazed by the things you miss when you close your eyes from really seeing the world around you. The hit and miss beauty of the landscape that is us.

But half of me urges me to be censored. To stop putting so much out there for anyone to read, thinking that maybe I've said too much already as it is.

I regret some of my posts.

The other day, I likened myself to Harriet the Spy, a book I read in 4th grade where the main character, Harriet, goes around writing in a special notebook everything she is thinking and feeling on a daily basis. Her journal becomes a slam book of sorts, and when it falls into the wrong hands, because eventually things like that always do, she begins to realize the danger of saying so many words.

Yesterday at Jamie's play premiere of Alice In Wonderland, I wondered if like Harriet, my notebook had been found out. My ex-stepfather didn't seem too happy to see me or maybe he simply wasn't happy to be away from his home on a Saturday, but his demeanor was cold. I thought back to one of my posts, and all the things I said and wondered for a moment, if his current wife who surfs the internet quite frequently had happened upon my site, and if she had, whether or not she had showed him what I had written.

Given an opportunity like that, I'm quite sure that she wouldn't hesitate to show him all the things I've wrote. I could even tell you what she would say, "I told you that girl was no good, never coming around, barely having two words to say when she is here. She's just a waste of your time."

And she would kill for an opportunity such as that, to get me, the reminder of my mother out of her house once and for all. To rid herself of memories she was never apart of, to kill the invisible family that was left behind, to finally feel like home in a house that was never hers. Yes, she would show him and take great pleasure in proving to him I was not the sort of woman one would want to call a daughter.

And what would I be able to say?

Was I to lie and tell him that he was never a link on the albatross hanging around my neck. Or could I explain that all the hurt and love I had for him existed in a place where only anger could touch? That in all these years I've never forgiven him for choosing the bottle over his family or that when I see him I still want to call him Dad.