I became a dog owner for the first time in my life about two months ago.

He’s a little guy, about 30 pounds, a beagle mix. He’s about 7 years old and very well trained, with a sweet personality and an adorable doggie smile. And he loves to be near me.

I didn’t grow up with any pets delegated to my care, and went through early adulthood free from curiosity about animals. Since I was never successful keeping a houseplant alive, I was certain that I would only bring doom to an animal.

This dog initiated the courtship, and we fell in love quickly. Fortunately I have a lot of friends with dogs, so they taught me what I needed to know.

I’m lucky to have a low maintenance dog–the most destructive thing he has done is chew up a pencil. I had feared, all these years, that the responsibility of a dog would be a heavy one, even with a good dog. He needs walking, feeding, and attention, which curb my style from staying away from the house from morning until night. There are the expenses of fencing in the yard, vet bills, and those chewy rawhide treats. Even as well behaved as he is, I thought that owning a dog would be a challenge to my lifestyle.

What he’s done, though, is to give me a greater appreciation for my home. I enjoy being there a lot more than I used to–because there’s somebody there who wants me around.

And he is awfully cute. He makes me smile every time I see him. I have to go over and pet him and talk baby talk to him just because. He’s my buddy.

I suppose it would be healthy to live with a human companion, but now I understand why people are so attached to their pets. My dog makes it easy to be home.

So why am I blogging under a pseudonym?

1. It’s fun to have a secret identity.
2. It’s fun to see if my secret identity will come to the attention of my friends before they know it’s me. I can’t wait until one of them asks me, “Have you read this article by Robin Raven Cow?” If anyone can disguise their identity and still be narcissistic, it’s me.
3. I’m a freelance and contract writer. I have current and prospective clients who routinely Google me. (Not that I’m famous–they just want to check me out before they hire me.) I want a forum in which I don’t have to consider my professional online reputation every time I write “screw it.”
4. I have Facebook Friends of various political and religious persuasions, some of whom are business contacts. When I post fun articles on Facebook I inadvertently piss somebody off. I’d rather piss people off here.

So do I lack integrity for not standing up for my beliefs publicly, with my name on them? Am I a wimp and a hypocrite for hiding behind an pseudonymous blog while appearing to be neutral in my real life? I do wonder.

The internet makes the alternate-identity business so easy, though. I can do a lot of cool stuff here: emailing, blogging, tweeting, commenting, bookmarking, digging, stumbling-upon, tumblng, and what-all. Woo hoo, it’s a brand new me!

Comment if you think I’m full of shit, or if you don’t–but this is damn fun.

This blog needs a reason to be.

I already blogged about blogging, as opposed to journaling. I don’t want to turn this blog into a personal journal, because my journals are awful, just awful. I don’t even want to read them–and they’re all about my favorite subject: me.

Some of the action is interesting but the plot is aimless. I don’t think the author knows how this story is going to end.

My journals suck because I keep asking “Why?” But it’s a “Why Me?” kind of why. Yyeachk. It’s getting me nowhere and time is getting short.

For a sec I thought that sounded too pathetic, but no, I’m leaving it in. Geez, how often do I get stuck in a conversation with another victim? I’m not going to get depressed about this. Taking life’s little shit too personally is epidemic.

I want a “Purpose” kind of why. Not just to make this blog interesting–to make me interesting. And not just to be interesting to you, but to be interesting to me.

I love this TED video of Simon Sinek, which explains (um) why we need a why. Executive Summary: A why enables us to get out of bed in the morning, and get other people to care.

People who have a business degree or a Certified Coach will call their inspiration a Mission Statement. Not all Mission Statements are created equal. Read between the lines of most business’ Mission Statements and the higher purpose is:

To raise market cap, sell this thing, and walk away with a lot of money, so we can buy Jaguars and vacation homes in France.

Read between the lines of many personal Mission Statements and the higher purpose is:

To be loved.
–or–
To have a lot of money [see above].

These don’t get me out of bed in the morning.

Problem: I haven’t got any better whys than these. And believe me, I’ve been journaling for most of my long life, and it isn’t for lack of asking “Why?”.

I really really want one. That’s why I’m blogging.

I’m a journaler from way back, since I was an English major in college. The chronicles of my 30-year inner journey are stored in a cardboard office file box that says on the outside,

If I am dead, throw this box, unopened, into the fire.

Since I’m not dead, I occasionally try to reread my journals, and it’s painful.

Why? Because I always journal the eternal question: “Why?”

Why did Poindexter stop calling me? Why am I so busy and tired all the time? Why won’t Betty Lou listen to my sage advice?

I can see, from 30 years’ worth of material, that there hasn’t much progress on the big issues. Men still don’t call. I’m still too busy. I still have self-doubt.

So I’m going to stop the madness and blog instead. What’s the difference?

• The openness of a blog holds me to a higher standard. Even if people don’t read it, they could. So blogging induces me to write pretty.
• Blogging develops my writer’s voice. Journaling doesn’t, because I’m the only reader. Blogging forces me to think about my audience, and the voice I want them to hear.
• I’d rather look online for validation of thoughts I want to share, than look inward for understanding of conundrums I can barely fathom.

“So why the anonymity, RRC?” you ask. “If these thoughts are worth sharing, why not put your name on them?” I refer you to my Who page.

This blog might still be painful for me to read, but I’ll keep working at it until it isn’t painful for you to read.

Possible future posts: The difference between my journals and ”Morning  Pages” à la The Artist’s Way; More about anonymity; Me and You in Writing; A different kind of “Why?”; Me me me

So here’s the thing. I think you will relate, gentle reader, because my condition, I’m convinced, is a sign of the times.

I have so many choices, that I don’t know what I want. And until I know what I want, I’m not going to be successful at it.

I even have more choices than most people, because I’m single and I have no kids. The only things gluing my feet to the ground are my mortgage and my dog. And–okay–my friends. And–okay–my family–sometimes, when they behave.

And I’m 50. That’s just surreal. I might look 50 despite my anti-aging efforts, but I don’t feel it, and I don’t act it. Funny how I used to think 50 was old. Dang, I used to think 30 was old. Now 30 is cute.

Being 50 puts some urgency on figuring out what I want and getting good at it. I get jealous of successful people who are younger than I am–and they abound. It’s not their money or their fame I covet, it’s their focus. They did one thing, learned it well, and stuck with it.

So what the hell am I going to focus on?

The only way I know how to figure that out is to write.

Really? Really.

This is ridiculous. I think of myself as a writer, and yet I don’t do nearly enough of it–at least not for myself. I spend plenty of time doing it for other people. Then I play solitaire to clear out my brain. That’s is nutty.

I “restarted” this blog last spring, wrote one post (which I deleted just now–I’ll explain why), and then unstarted again. Sheesh.

So let’s see if another “restart” will work.

For the record, the posts preceding this one really are more than a year old at the time of this writing. I was going to delete them when I restarted this blog, but I will keep them because they are still relevant. The topics I started in those posts are the ones I want to work on here. Wow, it’s amazing how much I don’t change in a year.

Last evening, I had an hour-long conversation with a person I trust. Okay, it was my therapist. She told me something incredibly validating that I might have observed myself, but it means a lot that she observed it, and imparted it to me.

I was telling her how anxious I have been–continually and chronically, over a long period of time–about being busy. I live in constant fear of forgetting something, not working hard enough, and letting someone down. I fear embarrassment and loss of credibility–not to mention loss of employability and money.

She said, “Everybody I talk to feels the same way.”

She described a world where everybody who has a job is picking up the responsibilities for their laid-off comrades. Everyone who is working is either overworking, or is letting things fall through the cracks. Everyone who is not working faces that brand of fear, uncertainty, and doubt. So, everyone is panicked.

Oh thank god. It isn’t only me.

In my last post, I described this anxiety and the calm I feel during my vacation. I don’t want to lose this calm. It feels human.

What a concept–being human. I think I’ll work on that.

It’s a vacation day, in my home and my neighborhood. This morning I enjoyed the luxury of having salon professionals wash my hair for me, then cut it. Now I’m at my favorite diner while the car gets its own salon treatment at the auto shop next door.

It’s been many months since I felt this calm. Without the enforced break of vacation, even on weekends, I feel the weight of work on me like a thundercloud about to explode with rain. As long as someone–boss, client, coworker–is waiting for some deliverable from me, my mind doesn’t rest until it is delivered.

Is this some personal anxiety of mine, or is this common?

Is the answer self-discipline and positive self-talk, or to challenge the generally accepted culture of work? The only answer I can think of, for me, is to challenge my notions about work.

In the Raymond Chandler novel, and more famous Bogie-and-Bacall movie,the Big Sleep is death. To me, the Big Sleep is one step shy: depression.

For long periods of time, I have been depressed. For me it’s a living death. No matter how exhilarating a spring day it is, no matter how angelic the children are, no matter how well stocked the pantry is, life doesn’t feel worth living. Love doesn’t break through.

When it was its worst, I took drugs, I did intensive therapy. Working on my health helped me wake up, but depression still threatens. It would be naive to believe that I can stay awake through sheer willpower and determination.

I once took a workshop in which the word “depressed” was translated as “deep rest.” Yes, the Big Sleep–but with a connotation that it’s restorative. I find that interpretation to be helpful. When I feel depression coming on, I do my best not to indulge depression to its deepest state, but I look for restoration in it. And I fight back with nutrition and exercise.

This week I am battling The Big Sleep because I am sick. I’m sacrificing several days of a personal retreat–during which my plan was to read and research careers–to a chest cold. I’m either too uncomfortable, or too drowsy from antihistamines, to read or write for more than a couple of hours per day. And I haven’t left the house in four days except to go to the doctor. I’m sleeping, resting, and restoring.

I have to believe that the time that feels wasted this week will return to me in greater energy later, after I rest.