I remember a time when none of it mattered — the traffic, the audience, the ABCs of SEO (and OMG, WTF.) I remember a time, at least, when it didn’t matter to me. When I burst out of the gates like a young racehorse, stupid and happy and bred just for this. When I was beyond thrilled simply to have an outlet for my writing. When I couldn’t wait to tell you everything there was to know about my kids, my life, my struggles. When I was home all day with young children and I just wanted to be heard, to be known for more than my deft ability to change a diaper or grind homemade baby food. I still remember how scared I was when I first saw my blog listed in another’s blogroll and thought I was being stalked.

As more people started reading, though, I was thrilled. I subscribed to the blog of every single commenter and did my best to visit their blogs each day. It worked for a while. It filled a space in me I didn’t even know was there. Having this window, this kind of 24-hour access into your lives, was addictive. An audience for my words was heady stuff. I reveled in all of it. And before long, I was in over my head.

Having all of these people take the time to read my words and leave thoughtful comments made me feel like a bad person. I couldn’t possibly reciprocate, couldn’t read all of their posts and comment as I wanted to, and I became obsessed with my failure and how poorly you must all think of me, what you might be saying behind my back. I panicked. I became exhausted. I shut down.

For about a week, maybe two, I felt a great relief. Then I missed the community. [Insert whispering: I still miss some of my early readers. I often wonder if they hate me for abandoning them.]

I came back a month after I quit and it was like I’d been rebuilt — no longer Maggie, but MaggieDammit 2.0; stronger, faster, streamlined. Better equipped to handle attacks, more adept at not taking every damn thing so personally. Aware that I could not do it all and unwilling to hurt myself trying. I retrained myself to think of my blog as a place to exercise my craft, as an extended umbrella to my freelance career (hence, the ads.) I donned new, impenetrable armor with privacy features, stronger safeguards in place to protect my interests, my loved ones, my delicate inner wires. I reentered the community and relished it, but did not let it define me. I tried to comment only when I had something to say, not when I felt obligated. I implemented the same practice with my posts, even if it meant they were spread a week or two apart. Now, I feel like I have a huge, generous support network — even though I have purposely kept large parts of myself hidden. I feel like I give when and where it is needed, and I admire more than ever the community I see before me. I’m in awe of the way we come together in times of pain. The myriad ways you support your fellow bloggers. I embraced it — but I decided whenever it felt too emotional, whenever I felt too exposed, I would back off. It’s been working for me for about a year.

Suddenly, now, I find myself at a brand new crossroads. Violence UnSilenced has changed everything. It crept up on me from behind, pounced, and felled me easily. It’s like I’m back at the beginning again, obsessing over who is reading and who is not, carefully combing through the comments for signs of dissent or judgment, making sure we’re listed in every directory, tweeting my little heart out. Right now we’re in the middle of this Internet contest and I’m making myself crazy over it, peddling for votes and emailing my posse and taking it personally when things don’t go our way — like last night, when for whatever unknown reason they deleted 3,000 votes from VU and put us neck-and-neck with the second runner-up (a blog that one month ago had 4,000 of its own votes deleted without explanation, alongside another 2,000 of ours.) I was very, very angry this morning over the way this contest has been run. I got incredibly worked up over what felt like a last-minute sniper shot.

Then I reminded myself: it’s just a contest. The top five finalists will go onto a panel of “VIP” bloggers who will arbitrarily decide the winner, regardless of the number of votes. Listen, I am grateful VU was nominated and I’m in awe of all of you who have worked so hard to promote the award process… I know I’ve worked hard myself. But I’d be lying if I said the entire thing, this experience of “competing” with my fellow bloggers, hasn’t left a terrible taste in my mouth.

A few minutes ago I took a look at the top five finalists in the “most inspiring” category. Each have endured great personal trauma, including those documented on VU. One recently lost a precious child whose face I still catch myself thinking about from time to time. Two are nursing sick children. One was involved in a fiery plane crash. A woman is beaten every nine seconds in this country. These are the things that matter. These and only these things. Not a contest that seems to be dividing a strong, loving community for the sake of Swiffer Sweeper. (Yeah, I said it. And if, by that one statement I just completely ruined our chances of “winning?” I think I’m okay with that.)

Bravado and contests aside, I’m so emotionally attached to the Violence UnSilenced site it’s scary. I’m inspired by the candor of my contributors and in many ways it makes me feel like a fake, like a pimp, someone who is asking others to bare everything, all the while hiding further and further behind my gun. In one space my heart is completely open. In the other it is so closely guarded.

I want to talk about my kids, but I don’t like invading their privacy. I want to talk about my struggles, but I feel like it makes people uncomfortable, people I run into every day, at the grocery store, at the bank, at my kids’ school functions. I want to share more, but I feel like that would diminish the gifts of my real-life friendships. I want, I want, I want.

I feel a change in the air, though, like the two sites each are pulling me in different directions and I need to slip free lest I’m drawn-and-quartered. I just don’t know which way is better. I don’t know which way to go.

The usual solution when I’m feeling this way (this obsessive, this neurotic, this angry, this long-winded, this needy and unappealing) is to unplug. To go outside, to stare at my garden, to jump on the trampoline with my children, to call my best friend. This is what I always do, in fact, right before I delete posts like this.

But see, this is what makes me feel like change is in the air: I’m leaving this post up.