It's Like Rain on Your Wedding Day.

This is the post I've been meaning to write, but absolutely, positively do not want to write. I'd rather do anything else than begin the emotional train wreck that will become this blog post.

Now, I know what at least a couple of people are thinking.

OHHH, THAT BITCH GOT LEFT AT THE ALTAR.

No! That is not what happened. Fuck you, guys. He went through with marrying me. sucker. 

It was beautiful. Small and intimate. My brother married us and we were able to completely surprise his grandparents with our nuptials. We laughed and cried and then laughed at our crying. We were the couple on top of the cake. We were giddy. However shortly after the ceremony, our beloved English Bulldog, Zeus, passed away. It was completely unexpected. The emergency vet told Matt it seemed like Zeus had some sort of underlying respiratory condition that went unnoticed, and the mix warmth and excitement, labored his breathing. It stopped his heart. She assured us it could have happened at any time.

We were devastated. Zeus had been our homie for over five years and we were ridiculously obsessed with him. He was our partner-in-crime and, as silly as it may sound, our furry little kid. 

Despite the horrible circumstances, our friends and family helped us make the best of the remainder of the day--well, them and a little panacea known as alcohol. But as soon as everyone went home, Matt and I were left with the task of dealing with an empty apartment. 

The next couple weeks were taxing, we tried to come to terms with this loss, and the fact that it happened on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of our relationship. Eleven years we waited to get married, and within 20 minutes of saying "I do", our squishy dog-child was gone. That fucked with me pretty bad, I'm not going to lie.

I wish I could have come back after being away for such a long time and say that everything was perfect, but that just ain't life, baby. As I get older, I'm learning that life will fuck with you sometimes. It will tear you apart, just to prove you're capable of putting yourself back together. And even though I miss Zeus every single day, I can't help but feel lucky that I didn't lose any family. Or friends. Or my husband.

Recently, I saw a picture of someone I know on Facebook. She was sitting on her fiance's grave in her wedding dress. Someone always has it worse.

It's been almost two months since our wedding and Zeusie's passing. Sometimes I'll come home and still expect him to greet me at the door, before being reminded of his absence by the silence in my house. But then again, sometimes I still forget that I'm someone's wife now.

I guess these things just take time.

Whoa! Shit Just Got Emotional, Y'all.

My best friend recently reminded me that it's been over a month since the last time I've blogged. To which I replied, “A month? No, I think it's only been about three weeks. Okay, maybe three and a half. Jesus, get off my ass.”

Or something like that.

I feel like these “Sorry I suck at blogging” apologies are becoming more frequent, and I wish I had a good excuse. Maybe something like “Sorry guys, can't talk about what's happening on 'My Strange Addiction' this week, because I'm Batman.” Or “I got a full-time job that doesn't require wearing a milk-stained apron.”

Neither of those are the case, though, unfortunately.

I seem to be going through something all bloggers deal with at some point. You start out fiery with schedules and infinite topics. You're commenting on everything and networking like a mother-fucking champ, and then the shine wears off. You get lazy. You start questioning yourself. Comparing yourself.

I sit down at my laptop and think “I'm sure as shit not The Bloggess. Hell, most people have only found my blog while searching for barista porn or asking Google how to sext.”

Proof.

But, I guess, such is life. Even things you love doing, don't always come easy. And you'll probably always question yourself. Wonder if you're good enough. If you're doing enough. If you're on the right path.

For anyone that doesn't know, I started blogging after realizing I didn't want to be a journalist. I was about a month away from graduation, which is the best time to figure out you don't want to do the thing you've spent the last four years preparing yourself to do. I was interning in public radio. Writing unbiased copy to be read on-air, and I was good at it. I had a very promising career in journalism, I was told. The same thing I had been told by the local newspaper I worked for, a few months prior.

But that didn't make my days go by any faster. I just wanted to write. I didn't want to dig up a story. I wanted to create a story. But I didn't think becoming a writer was feasible, so I decided to major in journalism. To me, it was the responsible choice.

Then I took a creative writing class, my last semester. I had avoided any form of non-journalistic writing, my entire college career. If I didn't take part in it, then I wouldn't want it. This is basically the same rationalization used by the Marcus Bachmanns of the World. I love my wife. I love my wife. I love my wife. Fuck! Ryan Gosling.

After the first class, I knew I had made a huge mistake. I should have been writing. I wanted to entertain people. I wanted to tell stories. I wanted to make people laugh. I skipped the rest of the day and cried in my car.

I know this seems overdramatic, and in a lot of ways, it is. But being someone who is obsessed with making the right decision, with having control, with having a clear path, realizing I was thoroughly unhappy with the choices I had made, left me feeling helpless. So I ignored it. Until I couldn't ignore it, roughly 30 days before I walked across a stage and accepted my makeshift diploma.

That's how this happened. My blog. I just thought I would write about work. And then a few people started reading. Then I learned how to network a bit, and a few more people started reading. I remember hitting 10 followers and losing my shit. Ten! Fucking 10 people chose to read some nonsense I've written.

It was the happiest I had been in a long time.

Then my expectations rose. The comparisons. The criticism. All the things that make doing something you love difficult.

I buckled.

I convinced myself that being a writer was not going to happen. That I wasn't tough enough. That I wasn't good enough.

I got in my own way.

Normally, I'm not a fan of overly personal posts. I figure no one actually gives a damn that I'm completely confused and have no clue what my next step is. But maybe you do. Maybe you feel the same way.

But whatever your opinion, this is here. A reminder to myself that while fallible, I can make the conscious decision to do what I love. To accept the confusion and the fear, because they are just as critical of characters in this journey as confidence and happiness. I will continually live with them all. And that's okay.

I just have to remember, that writing is what makes me happy. And even if that means the only person I'm writing for is myself, it's enough.

I'm enough.

We're enough.

I'll be back talking about weird shit in a couple days. Until then, my friends.