I lied, but now I tell the truth

Before, I swore-- more than a year ago-- that I had returned. I don't know what kept me from actually returning. It certainly wasn't that I was blissfully happy and off living a new, adventure-filled life; I can't actually remember what I was doing in May of 2013. I know that I was preparing to get a dog, thinking that he would somehow solve all of my problems. And I did get a dog, and he's wonderful and the love of my life, but he certainly didn't solve all of my problems. My problems remained, and added to that I was now responsible for someone else.
I don't mean to make it sound like my life was-- or is-- horrible. It is not. It is FAR from horrible, much closer to lovely. But I know that last year was a very tough one, and I have a feeling that while the year before that cannot compare, it was also quite taxing, and while writing should be a way of coping with all of that, sometimes I feel that writing it all down actually lifts the lid off the box. Does that make sense? It's like putting pen to paper-- or finger to key, as the case may be-- takes things that were previously resting prettily, folded up in tissue paper and hidden in a secret corner, and makes them float out into the world, where they cannot be contained. More importantly, it makes them float up into my own consciousness, and suddenly I have to deal with them. I have to admit that they're present, and that can make them seem so much worse.
An obsessive brain like mine often cannot let these things go. My brain dwells-- that's what it does. It also spins. I have to listen to podcasts at night, filtering in other people's words so that mine become diluted or filtered out entirely. So, to return back to my original thought, acknowledging those words by putting them down in writing makes it all the more difficult to tune them out. I also find it difficult to engage in the weighing of words that must happen when I blog if I wish to maintain my anonymity, that "goodnight dear void" quality of writing that would be sacrificed if these ruminations could be tied back to my real life beyond the page. I spend too much time in my daily life measuring words, scraping truths off the top like one does with excess flour; having to do so here would be excruciating. But, then, so would not writing. So has been not writing.
So I return here with an unclear purpose: How to balance honesty with delusion? Anonymity with confession? Freedom with caution? I don't know. But I'm certainly going to try. Goodnight, dear void.