This Is Not For You

I’m thinking about who and what I write for. I mostly write for myself as a way of preserving some of my memories, exercising my brain and getting thoughts down on paper. It’s how I have always processed my life, be it through journaling, essay or short story writing. It’s been my safe space to be…me.

I write for other people to make them laugh or to identify with some of my failings. A friend texted me after my story “Bleeding On My Paris Sport Club Jeans” to tell me that she wished she’d had friends as good as mine to walk her through the grossness of puberty. Another read my piece about “Being OK With Not Being OK” and told me she cried because it made her feel less alone. Recently a friend told me “Surprise…It’s a Diploma” inspired her to consider a Master’s Degree. You don’t have to have a life-altering experience from anything I write - that’s not my goal. But I hope that you feel entertained by me or seen for a few minutes. 

Putting yourself out there takes guts. It makes you vulnerable. I’ve never hit “publish” on my site without feeling gross in my stomach. Not because I need the approval of others, but because it’s a lot of myself to share. But I keep doing it because the more of myself I have put out there, the more others have given back to me. Each time I have shared with someone about my struggles (anxiety, depression, body image, imposter syndrome, parenting pitfalls, etc) I have seen the weight of others come off because they know they have someone they can talk with openly. I know the enormity of carrying those emotions and secrets and the toll it inevitably takes when you bundle it up tight inside and pretend it’s not there. 

Recently I was asked why I haven’t been writing as much. One reason is easy - I’m working more hours at my job and have a teenager and husband to contend with. The other explanations are more muddled. My anxiety has been at its worst in several years. I’ve had to adjust my medication…again, start talking to a therapist…again, explain to others why I’m not acting like my usual self…again. It’s exhausting to go through these issues but it’s even more debilitating to go through them alone. 

Another reason is because of some ridicule I received several months ago about a few pieces I wrote from people who don’t know or like me. Normally I would laugh off these remarks because these people are of no consequence in my daily life, but my writing is personal to me. Kind of like someone seeing you naked for the first time. Couple that with my increased anxiety and it shut off my creative switch. Sitting at my desk with my iPad didn’t feel safe anymore. I would try to write but nothing I said felt authentic because it came through a filter of “who might not like that I said this?” 

Writing kept me honest with myself. During my hiatus from this site I took a course on memoir writing and the best advice given to me was, “write your truth.” My version of events and recollection will differ from others. Two people can visit the exact same place and come away with two vastly different experiences. That doesn’t make one right and one wrong - it just means we see things differently. And that’s ok. I don’t want to only surround myself with “group think,” the phenomenon that people will align their thinking in an effort to keep harmony. New ideas and progress are subdued under this construct. We should feel our passion and know ourselves well enough that we aren’t smothered how “group think” wants us behave. In an increasingly polarized world, I let the opinions of people who refuse to see beyond their own world define how I see myself. 

I quit being brave and quit being the best version of myself. When I am the best version of myself I get shit done. I take awesome vacations. I make a playlist out of an obscure subject. I draw with my markers. I host friends on my deck. I prune my garden. I trash talk my family during driveway basketball games. 

I’m feeling braver and happier than a few months ago. I travelled to a few places I’ve never been, bought a couple records for my Crosley, scheduled nearly nothing for the entire summer, and let myself feel what I needed to feel. I’ve been down this road of anxiety and depression before and probably will travel it again.

But as a sweet friend told me during a dark time, “we are not for everyone.” Who I want to be “for” is the pre-teen girl who can’t swim because she is on her period and is pissed because she loves to swim and feels frustrated by her body. It’s for the elementary-school aged person who has a panic attack and doesn’t know that people four-times in age suffer from this, too. For the people who are 32-50 years old and have experiences comparable to mine that live like a time capsule in our brains. 

I don’t write for people who don’t like me. Or judge me. Or feel victimized by my version of my life. Nothing I say will ever satisfy these people so why make an effort to connect with them? I won’t try and I won’t conform to their expectations. 

To them I say, please don’t read my words. This is not for you.