Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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Packing, packing, and more packing of the apartment I called home for six years. A last weekend with my mom before things became ever more “we.” A trip to Las Vegas for Bloggers in Sin City where so many new friends were made. A bout with food poisoning. Moving Day. Unpacking and procuring a storage unit for 2/3 of my remaining belongings. My 31st birthday. New attempts to define “home.”

I want to write about all of it. Every last thing. I wan’t to share pictures and stories and friendships with you. I want to discuss the books and articles I’ve been reading lately that have made such an impact on me. I want to articulate exactly what my heart is telling me in conflict with my mind. I want to write again like I used to. I will.

For now, I’ll simply share this: as I stepped outside to walk Wendy this morning during a brief lull in the storm, I exhaled audibly. I paused and let the cooler air engulf me. It was almost calming in a way. I took in the city’s morning bustle, dampened and soaked by the rain. And I felt like, if only for that moment, I could breathe again.

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Anyway, so a week goes by and then another and even though I mean to blog, well…you know it doesn’t happen. Which is when I start to feel guilty on top of feeling that sense of obligation to my remaining six readers (hi!), and that guilt combines with my burgeoning shame for also having fallen severely behind in my Google reader. As you can see, I’ve been having a veritable kegger of blogging fail over here!

That said, this essentially worthless post is here to change all of that. Even though my blog has become the friend I have every intention to call and with whom I have so much to share but never do, I am determined to break the cycle and blog again! I’ll start small and go from there…

First things first, being a new dog mom is seriously making my whole life. I have never felt happier or more rewarded. I adore her little face and can’t wait to tell you what I’ve learned about her thus far. Three words: sexist, racist, Republican. For reals.

Second, kidney stones are a bunch of punk ass m#*$^% f*#&%@$!! More on that later, but just to be sure I’m clear: $*!%$#+&#&@!@!!!!!!!

Third, Vegas is happening in May! I can’t wait to meet everyone who has already registered and must confess I feel like the coolest girl because this blogger is going to be my roommate!

Last but not least, my new iPhone 4 arrived this morning from Verizon! Which means the rest of my day will be spent taking pictures and making videos of epic cuteness (i.e. Wendy).

Okay, wait, I lied. I have one more thing to share (also because the previous post said I would)..…the ugly Christmas sweaters my boyfriend and I made for the Music Box’s sing-along double feature of It’s a Wonderful Life and White Christmas.

Before: Standard Old Navy Sweater

After: What $60 at Jo-Ann Fabrics Looks Like

"Santa's favourite jumper," a la Bridget Jones. (Yes, yes that is a placemat. )

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And then, you try a pill. An anti-depressant. In clichéd marketing terms, you and your doctor “throw spaghetti at the wall” in hopes that something will stick. In hopes that one of the medications will work, the prescribing of which is still very much a guessing game, a gamble, a bit of “How do you like your odds?” You’re already taking Lamictal and Wellbutrin; have already tried Celexa, Lexapro, and Effexor…  why not Zoloft too?

You, who’ve been Depression, now morph into The Experiment. You’re willing to do whatever it takes, try whatever is recommended; you need help. In spite of this acknowledgment, you undergo hope and disbelief just as the sun slips in and out of the clouds. Light and shadow. Warmth and chill.

Is it working? How do I know? Is this really me? Who am I without depression? Who am I without a pill? When will I know? What happens if it doesn’t work?

The side effects begin. Insomnia. You attempt to function on 4 hours of sleep pieced together night after night. Loss of appetite. You don’t want to eat and yet you’re nauseous from taking the medication on an empty stomach. Muscle pain, headaches, and fatigue. Somehow, even your teeth hurt. For good measure, you also plow through dizzy spells, shaky hands, and a curious loss of your short term memory.

But, the daily crying has stopped. The panicking has stopped. You’re not cured, no. You’ve merely and quite unconsciously shelved “it” for now. But, you’re calm again. Calm. You begin to wonder if you stick with it another day, will the side effects abate? If you stick with it another day, will it be worth it?

On day 8, you finally sleep. You dream. And when you wake up, you take a shower and arrive at work early. You eat a healthy breakfast. You respond to emails, call your mother, make plans with friends. You come alive again.

Later that night, you think of your boyfriend and how good he has been these past four months. All at once you feel gratitude and love. It washes over you, fills you, radiates outward. It is the first time in more months than you can name. You realize you didn’t know just how empty and impaired you were until then, until you felt goodness again. You breathe deeply.

The Experiment continues. There’s cautious optimism- the medications have worked before, only to fail miserably- but the cloud is lifting. There’s more sunlight than shadow, more hope than disbelief.

And then…I write again.

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• Your first post (Mine: “My First Blog” - this post is so trite and BLAH and fearful of being anything special that it’s actually embarrassingly painful to share. Ouch.)
• A post you enjoyed writing the most (Mine: “Taking Stock” -  it felt really, really, REALLY good to reflect on and accurately portray the path that lead me to where I am at 30.)
• A post which had a great discussion (Mine: I have two posts actually… “ISO Guy with Dentist Pen” not only for all of your interesting comments but also for leading my boyfriend to find me, and “Race Relations in the Race to the Altar” because of the amazingly complex and honest responses each of you gave on such a difficult topic.)
• A post on someone else’s blog that you wish you’d written (Brandy at “It’s Like I’m…mmmagic!” has written several posts over the years that I sincerely admire, however, recently I was deeply moved by two in particular: this and this. Brandy, I hope that you have a great summer adventure with H.A.D. at Harry Potter World!) 
• Your most helpful post (Mine: “30 By 30” – I got to be the conductor of the Cliché Train all the way to Tritesville with this post, but you know what? Cliché or not, that shit is all TRUE.)
• A post with a title that you are proud of (Mine: “Remembering Putz” – maybe not so much for the title itself, but for the sentiment the post captures.)
• A post that you wish more people had read (Mine: “Cutting Through” – in an effort to be authentic and own something that will always be a part of me, this post became the most difficult narrative I’ve ever written.)

So, that’s it. Now that I’ve shown you mine, show me yours. Be sure to leave a comment with a link to your own!

*An especially timely bit of nostalgia as my blog reaches its FOUR YEAR mark next Wednesday. Who knew I had so much to say?!

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My experiences leading up to 30 have been a bit…different.

A couple of years ago in a session with my therapist, at the end of a long term relationship, she asked me to think about where I wanted to find myself at 30. She asked me to make a new “list.” I haven’t thought much about it since, I’ve been busy working and living out the days between as I would have regardless. My inner compass always seems to guide me toward opportunities or people or places that I’m happy to find along the way.

So with or without that list, I’m excited to turn 30 tomorrow. Thirty feels “right,” feels like the age I’ve already been for years, feels like where I belong. And the list? I revisited it the other day and was amused by what I read. For the most part, I think it holds up.

1. Find a new job.
2. Get out of credit card debt.
3. Go to Paris.
4. Buy the Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 handbag.
5. Keep writing my blog.
6. Be a better friend.
7. Date again, and hopefully find someone to have a relationship with.

Taking stock against that list: I’m still with the same company although I’ve just been promoted, I’m $700 away from being out of credit card debt, I haven’t seen Paris but went to NYC three times, the D.R. twice more, am in Seattle right now (hellooo, Seattle!) and am about to board an 8-day cruise to see Alaska instead, I haven’t and no longer want to buy the LV bag, I still (sometimes and would like to make the time to more frequently) write here, I’ve worked hard at making new friends and maintaining both old and new friendships, and I began dating again and am with someone who makes me feel safe and loved whether or not marriage or babies are down the road for us or not. All in all, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of ending up where I wanted to be at 30.

Looking back at who I was when I began my twenties compared to who I am as I depart them, I’m still very much the same hopeful girl. Only now I’ve realized that you can’t really “plan” life, that sometimes life happens and it’s more about what you make of it than what you make of what you didn’t end up with for all your planning.

At 30, I’m not going to make a new list. I’m going to keep living much the way I have since I made the original one. But there’s one glaring omission that I’d like to add and hopefully “achieve” in my thirties.

I’m still battling the same insecurities as I was when I was 10 years old and it harms me in countless ways. I don’t necessarily show it or write it or talk about it, but it’s there inside my own thinking nearly every day. I may know my capabilities and strengths better 20 years later, but I’m still my own worst enemy. I’m the first person to criticize myself, deem myself “not good enough,” and take that disapproval out on myself. Still.

The eighth item I’d add to the list is “be kinder to myself.” I want to find happiness at 31 and 35 and 39 because I’m nice to myself, because I’ve learned to no longer rip myself to shreds over what are ultimately inconsequential things. I want to unfasten my negative inner monologue and accept and appreciate myself flaws and all. No small task, but it’s probably the most important one.

The thing is, I can always be a better person, a better friend and daughter and girlfriend and coworker and neighbor. I can always strive to be better than I am. But the person I already am is pretty damn good too. If I write it enough, maybe I’ll believe it. If I think it enough, maybe I’ll feel it.

I haven’t seen my therapist in three months, but I know she’d approve and be proud of my addition to the original list. I know she’d tell me I’ve figured “it” out, that I’ve learned a lot from my twenties, am on my way to many happinesses in my thirties, and that when sadness or hardship finds me again I’ll be better equipped to not only live through it but thrive.

I think she’d be right.

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When I began blogging nearly four years ago, I didn’t really “think it through.” I had no grand plans or ideas about content or even much concern for the name or layout of the blog itself. I just knew that I wrote what other people wanted me to write all day long, and the only way to do so without burning out was to find a way to give my narrative voice a forum as well. For me, blogging was an outlet, an experiment, a message in a bottle. It still is in a lot of ways.

So it came as a bit of a surprise when without thought or cause I questioned it the other day. One minute I was brushing my teeth, and the next I was asking myself, Why do you still blog anyway? What’s the point? It was enough to give me pause. As I stood there, toothbrush in hand and absently looking in the mirror, I wondered what it could mean. A brow-furrowing, disturbing moment to say the least.

And now, I can’t seem to push the question back into my subconscious. Each day I’ve revisited what it could portend. Am I losing interest in blogging? If it’s not that, then what is it?

More than decrying any intent to stop blogging, I think I’ve reached the point of questioning where my blogging is going. What is it all for? Who is it for? To what end am I writing?

I write when the mood strikes me. I write about whatever my whims land upon. I write when I form that one true sentence in my mind. That’s all I need and I’m off. I’ve always written in that manner and I don’t believe that is something that will ever change or disappear. And yet, I can’t help but feel like maybe I’m blogging the equivalent of treading water.

These days, with so many bloggers traveling to meet-ups or getting book deals or parlaying their social media identities into careers, I’m wondering if maybe I ought to be doing the same…if I should be writing, commenting, leveraging, achieving more than this little pile of Internet.

But, I’m also wondering whether it “should” result in something. Can’t blogging be both the means and the end?

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