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Dear Internet
Dec. 14th, 2006 01:32 pmYou have been a good friend to me. Throughout the exhaustion of pregnancy, the maelstrom of parenting a newborn, and the two years of watching my baby grow into a little girl, you have been there for me, providing answers, entertainment, distraction. I've met wonderful new friends through you, people I wouldn't have otherwise met, largely because they live hundreds of miles away, and they live lives noticeably different from my own.
But, you are keeping me from fully living my life. I'm no longer sick and exhausted. I'm practicing getting past the anxiety and guilt and fear of getting back out into the world of work, socializing, volunteering, and whatever else is out there. I'm not sure I remember.
You are no longer a friend. You are a crutch, a drug. You no longer help me be stronger, but instead encourage me to weakness. When I have trouble deciding what to do, I turn to you, and you happily throw 10,000 things my way, most of them meaningless, but you always provide just enough meaningful or interesting or moving things to keep me hooked.
I can no longer afford to gamble on you. You're taking too much of my life.
You're keeping me from my family. You're keeping me from myself.
So, this is goodbye. Unfortunately, there's no quitting you entirely. I have friends here I want to visit. I have bills to pay here. You have answers to my questions. You have books and CDs and movies and even postage stamps. So, I am putting limits on our relationship. Six hours a week. Yes, I expect to make mistakes, to backslide, to suffer headaches and stomachaches and whatever else it takes to return to your cozy brightness, but I will prevail, and with each mistake I'll dust myself off and start over again. I can't let you keep making me disappointed with myself.
Goodbye.
But, you are keeping me from fully living my life. I'm no longer sick and exhausted. I'm practicing getting past the anxiety and guilt and fear of getting back out into the world of work, socializing, volunteering, and whatever else is out there. I'm not sure I remember.
You are no longer a friend. You are a crutch, a drug. You no longer help me be stronger, but instead encourage me to weakness. When I have trouble deciding what to do, I turn to you, and you happily throw 10,000 things my way, most of them meaningless, but you always provide just enough meaningful or interesting or moving things to keep me hooked.
I can no longer afford to gamble on you. You're taking too much of my life.
You're keeping me from my family. You're keeping me from myself.
So, this is goodbye. Unfortunately, there's no quitting you entirely. I have friends here I want to visit. I have bills to pay here. You have answers to my questions. You have books and CDs and movies and even postage stamps. So, I am putting limits on our relationship. Six hours a week. Yes, I expect to make mistakes, to backslide, to suffer headaches and stomachaches and whatever else it takes to return to your cozy brightness, but I will prevail, and with each mistake I'll dust myself off and start over again. I can't let you keep making me disappointed with myself.
Goodbye.
