Nothing but the (partial) truth

When Sigmund Freud's nephew passed along an editor's proposal that he write his memoirs, Freud demurred with the scruples of a scientist. "A psychologically complete and honest confession of life," he responded, "would require so much indiscretion about family, friends, and enemies, most of them still alive, that it is simply out of the question. What makes all autobiographies worthless is, after all, their mendacity."

In a way that's how I've been feeling about this blog – this poor, neglected, cobwebby blog. This beloved blog.

I've loved writing here and sharing my thoughts and modest adventures as I fumble my way through life these past six years. The problem is, I've begun to self-censor to the point of verbal constipation. I'll think of something or someone to write about and then shut down: "No, that wouldn't be prudent." Because it might cost me a future job or recommendation. Or jeopardize my severance package. Or simply make me look like a colossal whiner.

So here I am in mid March, up to my eyeballs in a Norovirus that has knocked the stuffing (quite literally) out of me since Sunday night and also, much more pleasantly, in freelance research and writing. For the first time in my life, I have no employer except ME. I think I'm happy about that. I know I'll be much happier when I finish clearing out my workspace at home and making it more like a real office. I'm completing a smaller writing project that has been rewarding – Oh, how I've missed interviewing people! – and am launching a year-long family history book project on behalf of a dear, admired friend.

While my health insurance situation is taking a nose dive and I no longer have either a pension or a free RIPTA bus pass, I'm lucky to have any sort of work, and I know it. Also on the plus side, our kids are doing well in their respective colleges and careers. I lucked into a fun if hectic six-month creative gig at Hasbro Inc. that ended last month. A scary biopsy in December came back clear. The death-row shelter pit bull I adopted impulsively in November has settled in, not without some major drama, such as a terrifying fight between Daisy and Yogi last month that I managed to break up with my bare, trembling hands.

Yogi's adoration (something I truly need right now, even from a dog) and his silly antics, our growing bond, and my walks with him and dear old Daisy on the beach every morning help salve my loneliness. Michael, newly a college president in New Hampshire after nearly two years of living and working in Connecticut, comes home on weekends when he can. These years apart undeniably are changing our relationship. Most of the time I live as a true empty-nester, a role that doesn't come naturally.

Where does all this leave my blog? When my most regular contact with friends happens via pithy status updates on Facebook, what shall I say here?

I have written something tonight, the hardest step of all. I hope I'll be back.