Finding the purpose…

I’m constantly told writing needs a purpose… a specific audience. I’m not allowed to simply write for me, it must be directed at someone in particular – or preferably an entire group! Herein lies the dilemma – doesn’t this therefore detract from the whole point?

Social Media 101… share every half formed thought that enters your mind.

Social Media My Way… create a whole new Facebook account using a pseudonym, and refuse to add any friends. I am loving it. I post what I want, when I want, and as much as I want – and there’s no concern I’m offending the masses and being judged as a poor parent, colleague, friend, sister, daughter, aunt, niece or member of society… It is a truly freeing adventure.

Those who know me realise I am a victim of the technological age – in an addictive kind of way. I use my devices far more often than my teenage children, I am always available and I know loads of tips and tricks. I find myself going to work most days with 2 laptops, an iPad and an iPhone, to add to my desktop… all of which I use for various purposes during the day… The joys of a workplace with a million ‘blocks’ in place…

So, to shut down my social media sites was a huge call. Everything went… but I realised it wasn’t the technology that was causing the stress… So I have created a new identity and new social media. My world is my own – Web My.Own.World.

I don’t have a specific audience. I can do and say and think what I please. My writing is once again my own. And isn’t that the point?

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Being both…

I don’t know how to be both parents. I really don’t. The teenage daughter seems to be sailing through with only mild glitches… but the preteen son? I’m failing miserably there. I’ve never been a teenage boy. I don’t know the answers to the questions. I don’t understand the male psyche. I don’t know which answers to give.

I do know I have to give him ‘facts’. I do know I need to remember that I am a mother, not a father. So no matter how much he wants an answer, I can only really give him a mother’s perspective.

I do not know how to step back and not try to fix his wounds. I do not know how to teach him to be the man he so desperately wants to become. I do not know how to fix his broken pieces or how to help him find the confidence that is shattered. I do not know how to heal my baby boy.

Knowledge is not helping me though. It doesn’t help a little boy find his way in the world. It doesn’t help him take the knocks life will invariably send his way, to find the confidence he needs to tackle the world, to not sweat the little stuff. It does not help to heal the wounds already inflicted.

I don’t know how to be both parents. I really don’t.

Waiting

Sitting, listening – to the beeps and blips of the monitors. I’ve become used to the sounds now. I know which infringement brings which alarm. Which buttons stop the sounds. I know my way through the corridors.

I have crisis friends – you know the ones – you spend so many hours in a common place that you’ve all swapped stories and sympathy. You smile in the corridors and waiting rooms, hoping they smile in return – dreading the tears they may be forced to shed.

We are one of the lucky ones. Moving up the ladder tomorrow.

It’s also a time of realisation. Each new illness or accident takes it’s toll. The years add, inevitably, and exponentially. I look on and see the damage. Truly see it. There isn’t a lot of time left. That’s the realisation I don’t want to face.