The Biggest Douche Bag In The World

My nieces friended me on Facebook.  I only know this because it showed up in my email.  As far as Facebook goes, I'm kind of illiterate.  I confirmed them as friends and one niece, Kristin messaged me.  She said, "You posted that you were going to start writing again.  That's cool."

Kristin, at only fourteen, writes herself.  My eldest nephew says her short stories are good, but of course she doesn't want me to see them until the final drafts are completed.  I get that.  So I answered back, "Did I?  I don't remember posting that."

I checked my profile and sure enough, there was the link to my blog.  My profile was public.  Any person who ever wanted to visit my Facebook profile could have read any part of my blog.  ...Including my boss.  He sent me a friend request a month or two ago and I simply ignored it.  My heart dropped to my stomach as I came to the sudden realization that anyone at anytime could could have read anything I've written here.  I meant for this to be simply a place of storage.

I know what happened.  When I first started the blog, I meant to write about observations, kind of a dry, cynical Seinfeld-esque style on daily life.  Then I got bored with all that and quit writing.  When I came back, I was determined to write about healthy eating.  I had discovered healthy foods that tasted guilty and I wanted to share that.

Then I went a little off the deep end.

In my old blog, I was very strict to write about family, but never "about" them.  If someone hurt me, I would not write about it.  If someone offended me, I kept it to myself or simply communicated it verbally.  I did not write about it.  I know I've done that at least twice here.

I thought about that argument I had with my boss.  I did, in fact write about it.  What was I thinking?  Did he read that?  Could he have?  My stomach churned at the very thought.  I thought about all the crazy stuff I'd written about myself.  No wonder no one from high school has contacted me.  They probably either remember what I was like back then or read this blog and ran screaming for the hills.  Oh God, I never meant to advertise to the entire world how crazy I am.

I went to bed thinking about it.  I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about it.  I felt like such an asshole.  I woke up this morning practically with my heart racing, I could feel a panic attack only two crazy thoughts away.  If I was to dwell on this too hard, my heart would pound and flutter, I'd sweat profusely, and I'd hyperventilate.  Even as I write this, my stomach is flip-flopping, my heart is racing and my hands shaking.

What an asshole.  What right do I have to vent every frustration and every offense?  How could I allow this?  I haven't gone back and read anything I had written.  It's almost like I'm afraid to, like I'd be opening some form of a Pandora's Box.  It might be the thing to finally push me over the edge.  Let's face it, it's not like I think too highly of myself and every time I do or say something stupid I cannot get it out of my head.  This goes beyond that.  How many people have read anything here?  Family, co-workers, acquaintances from way back when?

For a very brief moment I thought others might have read the things I have meticulously typed out and thought to themselves, "Hey, I'm not the only one of my kind.  I'm not the only one that's Bat-Crap-Crazy."

This is not the pages of The Uncanny X-men and I do not have a cool super power.  I feel like the biggest douche bag in the world.  Why did I put that link on my profile?  Why did I start writing about all this?!  Why didn't I stick to dry humor about road rage and gas prices?  I can't change it and I can't take it back.  I have no way of knowing who and how many people read anything here. 

I feel like I might throw up.  What an asshole.  Well, that it's then.  I'm done.  I'm not going do this anymore.  I allowed my place to vent, my only form of therapy to be shared with God knows how many people.  I did this to myself.  I'm done.