I've been thinking a lot about, symbolically, kicking the dirt off my boots. Stop thinking about WHY people do things, what I did to them, why they act the way they do, say what they do. Who cares? Maybe I did something, maybe I didn't, but I'll never know unless they decide to tell me and I spend waaaay too much time worrying about it. Kicking the dirt off meaning...just get the thoughts AND the people out of my life that bother me, life is too short and my mental health is too important.
For instance, Mark's mother just has the most bizarre responses to emails and I can't figure them out and have stopped trying. I actually stopped responded to her emails to both of us and decided she really was meaning to be sending the emails to Mark, not me, but was being polite and including me in the email. I decided this after I replied, just to her, with a very nice response, upbeat and loving, and her response to me? "Thanks", not even with punctuation. So she sent us another email just the other day asking us about our house, if we were all moved in. SHE asked US. Like I said, I've stopped responding, so Mark, who doesn't talk about this stuff, it's totally boring to him, told her we had ordered custom furniture and it was coming in very slowly so we have some rooms decorated and some rooms empty and I was redecorating the house until school started. That's not quite the truth, my life isn't so pampered. I had surgery and have been recovering, but I don't feel close enough to her to tell her that and told him not to tell her either. Her response? So very, very bizarre. She replied how good the cake was that we sent her for mother's day - very sweet, she could only eat a little at a time, but very good. So she asks about the house, Mark fills her in, and she makes no comment about it and comes back about cake?
Mark only told her the furniture was custom because she used to go ON and ON about some little Ethan Allen table I've seen that she's had and loves and everyone had to be so careful around it growing up and he thought she would really like to hear about the furniture. It's not Ethan Allen - we went there even though we liked another place better ONLY because Mark grew up with his mother always talking about her Ethan Allen table and she built the place up so much in his mind! We didn't like Ethan Allen when we went there and chose another place, but he had to go there to see for himself.
So. It makes me wonder...yes, I know it's his mother. Is she not happy for him? He wasn't bragging - she asked, and if you can't tell your parents what's going on in your life, the good, the bad, I mean what is that? The woman that took me in when I was 16 - I can only think that is what happened with her. I was no longer the teenager down the street that needed rescuing from abuse, I had risen above it all and was now in a pretty okay place. Somehow, that wasn't okay with her. When they say "misery loves company", that is really, really true.
Which brings me to my current feelings about facebook. 90% or more of these people I am "friends" with - they have none of my contact information outside of facebook. No email address, no phone number, no house address, nothing. That's not a friend. Had I wanted to stay friends with them, I probably would have. Yes, I've found long lost family members, very grateful for that, and friends I was very happy to be reunited with. But mostly...acquaintances I never really knew that well, never cared to know, never was a friend, and don't really care about them now.
So what is the purpose exactly? I really don't want to share anything about myself with these people, what I'm doing, who I am, what I like, don't like, where I go, if I'm married, what I look like - have I aged? Have I gained weight? Do I have kids? It's none of their business - it's just morbid curiosity on how someone "turned out". And same is true about them - I really don't care about them and what they have to share about themselves.
I have nothing to be embarrassed about, but I'm a highly private person if anyone hasn't already been able to tell. My psychiatrist asked me where I got support for my illness - friends? family? I told her just my husband (and my blog, but I can't tell her that, how could I write about her then?). She said so you've told no one? I told her no, just my husband. I could tell that wasn't a good answer, but she didn't say so or lecture me or even do anything that would appear to be unapproving - it's just the fact that she asked me that question, "You've told no one?" But, like I said, she recommended a counselor for me. There is absolutely no counselor in the world that could get me to divulge my mental illness to people I know. If there's not a reason, why face unneeded consequences?
Back to facebook. I think I'm going to deactivate my account. The people who only know how to contact me through facebook including family members? We must have never been close if we couldn't even exchange phone numbers or email addresses. I find that sad. Yes, it's a two way street, I'm as much to blame. But facebook shouldn't take the place of *real* friends. Maybe that's why so many people are deactivating their accounts, I have no idea.