I’m all discombobulated.

Shuddup. That’s totally a word.

This job is such a roller coaster.

Some days I come home and think, my good Lord, I love my job. I can hardly believe how lucky I am to be able to help people and get paid for it.

Some days I come home and think, my good Lord, what the hell am I doing? They could pull a monkey off the street to do my job for free.

Some days I come home (at 8:15am!) and I literally pass my husband on the street; I’m on the way home and he’s on the way to work. And I feel sad.

Some nights I leave at 11:45pm as my husband is getting ready for bed, and all I want in this world is to crawl into bed with him and talk about his day until the conversation peters out and I drape an arm over his chest to feel it slowly rising and falling. And I feel lonely.

Some days (nights!) my husband wakes me up for work and says, I’m sorry, you missed your son’s school play while you were sleeping. He did great. It was unbelievable how amazingly he delivered his lines with just the right inflection. And I cry. Then that son says, I wish you could have been there, Mom. I felt you not there. And I cry some more.

I miss living my life with my husband. I miss my sons.

And I pray yet again, Lord, I want to be back in the real world, sleeping at night and living the day, just like everyone else. Am I missing a lesson here? Are you trying to teach me something that I’m just not getting? Teach me louder, Lord. I’m trying to learn.

But… silence. Nothing.

Some days I cannot bring you the funneh. I just don’t have it in me.

I’m sorry.

Listen, I realize there’s important events happening all over the world at the moment. People being born, people dying; natural disasters, large and small; nations fighting, governing, and signing treaties. I acknowledge the significance of all these life-changing activites.

But we need to talk about my hair.

I’m thisclose to ripping it out and setting it afire upon the altar of cosmetology. And, I should add that I am not averse to gluing it onto a chicken beforehand if it would help.

In November 2003 i had long curly hair. I felt cute and perky and a little ditzy. One day with no warning, I cut off 12 inches of hair and gave it to Locks of Love.

(You’ll have to Google that if you don’t know what it is; I’m composing this post on my iPhone and can’t be bothered to go through all the rigamarole of looking up the link in Wikipedia and adding HTML to link it.)

(Although factoring in how long it took me to type that last sentence, I might as well have taken the time to just do it.)

(Whatever.)

Anyway, it was short. Like, an inch to two inches long on top and a 1/4″ on the sides and back, depending on if I was getting it cut every four weeks or six. Which, by the by, gets expensive.

I love having short hair. It’s easy. I put a little mousse in it, play with the top for a minute to get it just the right amount of messy-on-purpose, and I’m out the door. It looks professional yet playful. It makes me feel sassy and confident.

Events transpired and conspired.

Everytime Tom looked at pictures of me with my long hair, he remarked on my curls and how much he missed them.

My beloved hair-cutter-gal decided to quit and go back to school and I couldn’t imagine anyone else getting scissors within a two foot radius of my person.

My last haircut was by hair-cutter-gal in her last week in her salon; the second week in August.

I almost sobbed on the way out that day.

My hair and I decided to go into mourning, just a step short of wearing sackcloth and piling on smoldering ashes.

We made a deal. I would let hair grow, and hair would not get in my way.

Hair reneged on the deal like the lying wench she truly is.

Hair staged a full-on mutiny, flipping up and out and in angles only previously achieved by a cirque du soliel performer.

I persevered. I fought back with gel and mousse and headbands and tiny barrettes.

In the best case scenario, Hair reluctantly complied to the smallest extent absolutely necessary. At worst, a beastly temper tantrum reared its ugly head and Hair was beaten back into reluctant, pouty submission.

I am growing weary of the battle. Hair has proven to be a tough and worthy adversary with plenty of fight left.

Tom says he doesn’t mind one way or the other, although I suspect he secretly harbors a preference for long curls.

What say you, Mah Peepull?

Give up and get shorn? To recap; expensive, sassy, professional, with a husband yearning for curls?

Or bravely soldier on? To recap; cute, perky, sexy, ditzy, with a husband happily twirling ringlet curls around his fingers?

Mah Peepull shall be heard!

I’m sure you’ll all collectively breathe a huge sigh of relief that I’m starting to come out of my funk. Oh, for crying out loud, just pretend and let me dream, Mah Peepull. Assume a caring, nurturing expression and nod a lot. I don’t care if you’re actually thinking about Chia Ninja Snails and/or switching to Bounce from Downy while you do it. Just do it. February is always the hardest month for me to get through, then March hits and I’m in the home stretch to spring.

This helped my mood brighten… When I turned in my latest Photoshop post for review at Blissfully Domestic, my editor posted it then emailed me to tell me she loved it and to eHighFive me. Which I’m pretty sure is illegal in at least 13 states and is consequentially and simultaneously 11 kinds of hawsum.

The only drawback is the subsequent testing I’m going to have to undergo at the eClinic for eSTDs. I shouldn’t worry about it too much, though. There’s probably an eShot or an eCream for that.

By the way, you should click that link up there, run over and leave a quick comment on my post. It’ll help me perpetuate the rumor that I’m popular or something.

By the way squared, even if you don’t give a rat’s patootie about Photoshop, you should comment anyway. We don’t discriminate against non-Photoshoppers, so feel free to just say anything, such as what year you discovered Britney Spears was actually pretty lame. Or maybe just apropos of nothing, name any color a la that Facebook craze that reigned for six crazy days where we told the color of our bras and giggled like sixth graders. Don’t be boring and just red. Meh. Say, Burnt Carrot! Or, Used Coffee Grounds Sienna! Or, Open Herpes Wound Crust! Or… uh…

Clearly, I have some issues. But there I go again– Thank you, Colonel Obvious! (After someone said to me a few days ago, “Wow, you look kind of tired or sad or something”  the Captain was promoted to Colonel.)

I just realized I discriminated against people who haven’t come to the realization that Britney Spears is lame. Irony, Mah Peepull, irony.

Are you disenchanted with the idea of the blogging community? No? Only me? Okfine. Then I’ll just write this to myself.

Disclaimer: This post has been brought to you by several weeks of sleep deprivation, clinical depression, and probably what is (if I’m being honest with myself) a little bit of sour grapes. I feel all dark and twisty; all ridiculously emo like someone half my age. All the angst plus fine lines and stretch marks! SCORE!

I’m taking a risk; this post could create some backlash against me. The blogosphere doesn’t take kindly to back talk against it. I hope it’s taken in the spirit it’s intended, which is not one of hostility but rather a yearning for discussion.

I’ve never been one who wants to stir up a shitstorm or create drama; that’s not the intention of this post. I’ve never been a boat rocker. I’ve never even had a troll. If I’ve ever been meant to have a troll jump out from under the bridge, this is the post that’ll do it. I don’t take critism well. I tend to find the nearest corner into which I can curl up into the fetal position and rock while sucking my thumb. I’m preparing myself to either get flamed or get ignored. I’m not sure which I fear worse– Dory, you’re kidding me, right?! You expected MORE you moron?! Do you live IRL or blog-world?! (A little of both actually) or ominous silence.

So what is my intention? Well, these words have been percolating for quite a while. I’ve NOT said this for months and I’m hoping that by doing so I may break some writer’s block. I’m also hoping that I’m going to discover that it’s not just me. Hopefully, I’m not alone. And maybe by thinking out loud here (which I do quite often) I can discover a solution to my discontent.

Here goes nothing. *jumps from the plane and pulls the rope*

My number one objective for blogging has always been this: a desire for connection. For finding people I get, and that get me. For stumbling across a kindred spirit.

My second objective for blogging has been this: to affect people with my writing. Whether I make you laugh or cry or think or snort with derision is not important; just as long as I affect you, I feel my mission has been accomplished.

I’ve been blogging since 2003. At first, it was just to friends and family on LiveJournal, but then I became aware of the blogosphere in 2007 and set up camp on Blogger. I loved the idea of connecting with other writers online and the whole concept of “blogging community.” I met a few really super cool people (I’m looking at YOU, Country Girl, City Girl, MelodyAnn, Abby, and Fabs) that really connected with and for that I am truly thankful.

Back then when I was all starry eyed with the blogosphere, I was completely enamored of the idea of the blogging community; the comments, the give and take, the camaraderie of this shared insanity that is blogging.

I mean, let’s face it; it takes a blogger to get a blogger. None of my IRL friends have any inclination to blog. I’ve never even met a blogger face to face.

And unlike In Real Life, my Deafness was not a factor whatsoever. (I’ll try to be concise on this idea, but I smell a whole ‘nother post coming from this one point.) You don’t have to have hearing to participate fully in the blogging community. I felt this was an area of my life where I could be on level ground with everyone else, instead of missing a great deal of what was going on around me. Plus, I was looking forward to the opportunity of meeting lots of other D/HoH bloggers; ideally, late deafened ones that share my experience. We aren’t equal participants in the hearing world, but oftentimes we’re not completely accepted by deaf world either. We’re a weird lot. We probably don’t have a deaf ‘accent’ because we were deafened post-lingually; our hearing aids are next to invisible; we’re less likely to demand our right for an interpreter and instead make do with residual hearing and speechreading; we offer no clue to you that we need acceptance and accommodation to be on equal ground with you. We experience the “real” world very differently and it can be quite isolating.

I saw the community that was going on around me, and I wanted to become a part of it. I started out with about 40 blogs that I felt I could really connect with the author, and set up my reader. I taught myself; RSS, Subscribe, Feedburner, search engine, keywords, memes, all of these were all completely unknown concepts to me in May 2007. But I researched and studied and learned stuff and set up my own little online living room in Blogger. Then I set about reading and commenting my little heart out all over the place. I wasn’t sure how to comment at first, but quickly came up with the strategy of picturing this author sitting across the table from me, sharing a coffee or a beer, and thinking, what would I actually say to this person. I really invested myself.

I knew it would take time to become accepted. But after a few months went by, I found the return on my investment unsatisfactory. I had erroneously hypothosized that if I invested in them, they would invest in me. But I wasn’t getting the connection, the interaction, I thought I would get. Surely, I thought, I am worth at least getting to know. I don’t think I’m coming on too strong and setting off people’s stalkeradar. Why aren’t people responding to me? I asked myself. What’s wrong with me?

Okfine, I thought, I need to show them I’m serious. I’m in this 110%. In August 2008, I put on my big-girl-blogger panties and bought my domain and hosting. I spent hours days setting up on WordPress, learning about widgets and CSS and fussing with the design. I saw my blog, and it was good. And I thought, now, now they will see I’m in it for the long haul. I got right back to reading and putting my heart and soul into the comments I left in my wake. I really put myself out there in my posts, offered myself up at my most vulnerable.

Now it’s February 2010 (can you believe it?!) and here I am, still dissatisfied with the blogging experience I’ve had. Years later.

I’m tired. I’m tired of taking five hours to craft one post and getting no comments on it. I’m tired of reading about the blogger meetups and the resulting lovefests and feeling left out. I’m tired of checking my stats and being disappointed that I haven’t broke 50 subscribers yet. I’m tired of reading about the awards and the different strategies for garnering votes, both the ones who take the high road and the ones who choose the low. I’m tired of reading about 100s, even 1000s of bloggers flocking to one blogger’s plight. Sour grapes? Probably. I’ll own that. But I wasn’t asking for donations or votes or 1000 subscribers or a trip to Disney. I was only asking for some connection; ok, I’ll admit it– I was asking to feel the looove. But all these years later, all I feel is that I’m pressing my nose up against the window, on the outside looking in.

I don’t think I’m deluding myself. I know that I’ll never receive an email from Dooce. I’ll never go stay a weekend at the Lodge with Ree. I know that an A-Lister will never actually strike up a friendship with me or find me interesting enough to talk to seriously.

But what about all those bloggers (probably 100s now that I’ve been at this a few years) that have maybe 50, 100, at most under 1000 readers, that I’ve laid myself vulnerable by sharing with them my personal experiences in their comment section? Some I sent encouraging emails with an “I’ve been there and I’m on the other side and you’ll get there too” or an “I’m really impressed with your writing, keep up the good work” or an “Your photos are striking and you have a great eye for composition.” And gotten nothing, zero, zilch in return. Not even, “Thanks for the encouragement” or “Your words came at just the right time.” I’ve even offered framed 5x7s in their choice of images for virtual housewarmings that they’ve thanked me for, but never actually collected on. Can you see my frustration in the fact that my photography sucks so effing much that I CAN’T EVEN GIVE IT AWAY?! That my words mean so little that they don’t even warrant a response?!

Something’s got to give.

I can’t any more.

Maybe I’ve had the wrong objectives all along. Maybe connection and affecting people was just too much to hope for. I’m just thisclose to unsubscribing everyone in my reader and closing comments on all my posts just so I can avoid the disappointment. Maybe even prove to myself that I can just write for the sheer joy of writing.

But in my heart, I crave that connection that the blogging community seemingly offers but that remains so elusive to me.

I’m tired of my blogging experiences being a trigger of so many depressive episodes.

I’m tired of feeling like the kid in Sp Ed who is trying to be friends with the captain of the varsity cheerleaders.

I’m tired of feeling so alone in the blogosphere. I get enough of that In Real Life.

Am I the only one?

Seriously.

I just don’t have the energy to be Little Miss Sunshine.

And last time I posted while unbearably depressed, I got ignored; which, you can imagine, does wonders for shaky mental health.

I’ll wallow in my pity for a while and be back later.

That is all.