It’s been real

By now you have probably seen Josh’s goodbye post, which was short, succinct, and I don’t think gave enough due credence to this gigantic project we’ve cultivated for the past two and a half years of our lives. This has been the platform for our intellectual and emotional catharsis, for stupid YouTube finds and dumb commenter wars, for some of the most formulative years of our lives. We are so fucking lucky to have those two years documented here. Some time, when we are much older, we will understand just how lucky we are.

It may sound stupid, but keeping a blog is hard work. Somewhere between growing discouraged by the internet and living in Paris and putting my editor hat on, between the internships and classes, the brutal, wounding relationships and shifting friendships, blogging stopped feeling like a release and more like a chore. At least in this space, I suppose. There were times when I avoided logging into WordPress altogether, because I would feel guilty watching our stat count fall in tandem with our sparse posting. I was blunt and short with people who’d ask when I’d write again, because it felt like a reminder of something I wasn’t doing, when in truth I was actually doing a whole hell of a lot. And when Josh stopped posting, the burden felt too much. I can’t be Jess AND Josh. The truth is that I’m not even that great at being Jess.

The other trouble is that, for me, I’ve always been less able to write the kind of gut-wrenching personal essays J&J favors when I’m happy. And well, right now, I actually am pretty fucking happy. I spent so much of my life being sad that when I get to a place where I feel even mildly content, I’ll do everything possible to reserve that space. It’s scary to think of going back to where it was dark, where I was dark, because there’s always the fear that I’ll somehow get stuck there again; as if happiness was a fleeting trick until I was successfully lured back to the empty place I’ve come to know all too well. Unfortunately, this also means that I’m less able to easily access that necessary part of myself that allows for the kind of piercing honesty cathartic blogging demands. I’m wary about getting back in touch with that part of myself, because for so long I relied on that place as a source of comfort, even though it was painful. My writing might suffer because of this, but at some point I have to learn to value happiness–my happiness–more than the things writing might carry.

I also think as I grow older I’m less willing to share so much about myself with people I barely know. For the past two years, it was absolutely necessary for me to work out most of my shit in a public space, because there was something genuine and appealing about identifying with other people who felt the same. I’ve begun to curl back into myself, but instead of fighting it, I’m learning to just go with it. Not everything needs to be overanalyzed. Not everyone is an enemy.

So how do you neatly pack away two and a half years of a life you have loved and built and shattered and shared, all in an arena packed with strangers? Well, I suppose with a post like this.

I’ll update soon with the address of my pretty new blog. You didn’t think you were getting rid of me that easily, did you?