It’s much harder to be straightforward, you know, than to smirk behind the veil of ego jokes. They’re funny – don’t get me wrong – and each one, in all its absurdity, makes me laugh more.
I do love to laugh.
But it’s much harder to tell you – though I know so many of you feel similarly – about insecurity, self esteem, fear. And it’s equally preposterous that I don’t share that, if I want my online representation of myself – this here weblog – to be accurate in the slightest.
Preposterous, absurd, straightforward, difficult – sounds like we’re finally talking about me.
And fuck, it’s tough to even start.
Do I tell you about my family? About my horrendous college experiences? About the many relationships I’ve immersed myself into, losing myself, over and over again?
Do I write about the men? The one who hit me or the one who mindfucked me into believing I’d hit him?
Do I tell you about my rollercoaster relationship with religion? With education? With self control?
And do I want any of this to be published, to exist somewhere my future children can read it? Or do I hope that I’ll be this open with them, tell them my stories, scar them with my tales?
Or do I just narrate the lives of my beautiful pups, play fashion show with lip gloss, share photos of gorgeous footwear that happen to conceal any physical flaws, hide behind the curtain of self-centeredness I’ve covered in sparklies of every color?
Do I publish a photo of my whole body, showing every flaw, wrinkle and roll? Outline my physical stats? My weight-loss adventures? My many maladies and injuries?
Do I recite my diagnoses? List my medications? Recreate the mortifying conversations I had with my roommates about why I needed to shine a ridiculously bright light into my eyes each morning, waking them all up, officially positioning myself as a girl they no longer wanted as a friend?
Or do I just say: I am a sad girl.
‘Broken’ is how they put it in song lyrics. But that always implies Something Big has happened.
I don’t have anything Big to say.
Ok, so maybe I’ve got date rape and brief pregnancy and abuse and struggles with god in there somewhere, with deep-seated body-image issues, a degree I never finished, a tendency to collapse in tears and a penchant for allowing my self-worth to be defined by others, but – and, yes, I know it sounds completely nuts – those simply don’t feel like Big Somethings.
They feel like events and qualities others have faced down and conquered, and on a regular basis.
And that’s it, right there, Meredith! That’s comparing yourself to others just to put yourself down.
But then haven’t I already told you, in all my questions? Are they the veils of efficacy, if I can’t figure out how to tell my secrets in declarative sentences?
Though I do love a good declaration.
I don’t know how to say what I want to say, and fuck, I don’t know what it is I want to say. I just know I want to say ‘it’ and that I am proud I have.
Which is really incredible.