Sometime this month, I’m scheduled to be on the cover of a local weekly newspaper. I’ve known for awhile, probably about two weeks after my December interview, when the paper’s photographer called to set up my “cover photo shoot.” The fact that I — or rather my blog persona — would be featured on the cover was news to me, and so I called the story’s writer in a panic.
“What did you say about me?”
“Do I sound like a moron?”
“Will my neighborhood find out about my secret online identity?” and so on.
She assured me I won’t look too much like an idiot in the story and so that’s that. Until it comes out and I’m exposed.
It’s no secret that I’m fond of oversharing. I do it in person all the time, usually with people who don’t know me well and could care less about my feminine itching. I say most things I think on my blog, too, which befuddles my friends and general observers, because why do I want everyone to know my business and see my kids and learn that I suffer from severe hormone imbalance and fear the word, “moist.” People who keep life close to the vest don’t understand, will never understand, and that’s OK. It’s just not me. Still, I find myself explaining all the time why I want the world to know my life.
The simple answer is “I don’t.” The long answer is “I love to write. I’ve been presented with this medium — MY space — where I can express myself to the world and for better or for worse, my expression is open and raw. I will tell you everything because that’s how I write. Because I think you think these things, too.”
Word gets around about my extreme openness, which is why the writer of the article mentioned above, contacted me. I told her everything, because I don’t know how not to. I confessed how much of my life is spent online, how I’ve sacrificed family time, how my work is the computer — and so is my recreation, how I wish I could get back to reading the printed word, how I don’t know how I’d operated without something electronic in my hand. I told her all this, because it’s all true. Even if it’s ugly, it’s glaringly honest. So why wouldn’t I say it? That’s what I don’t understand.
Professionals will tell you it’s because the ugly truth will tarnish your brand, and I believe it. It’s just that I’m not a brand, I’m a person, and I’m talking to people.
Still, with this telling comes judgment and criticism. It’s natural. When this article is published, I expect it. How I’m a bad mom because I’m online so much, how I’m wasting time, how I’m exploiting my kids, how I need to get over myself.
Maybe not, I don’t know. Truth is, I’m scared. From behind my laptop, I can write honestly about the things that make me imperfect, but when the laptop is gone, it’s just me and my words. Even if I do stand by them.
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I remember a few years ago when Dooce appeared on the Today Show and Kathie Lee read her the riot act for compromising her child’s safety by writing every detail of her life, which was rich criticism coming from a TV host who’s talked about her family to MILLIONS OF PEOPLE for years. Guess what Kathie Lee? I know your kids’ names, the state of your marriage, where you live and where you work out. Do you think with one click of a mouse other people can’t find this information, too? These days, you don’t need a blog to broadcast your life, the Internet does it for you, pretty much whether or not you are complicit in the process.
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About 15 years ago, I was stalked. This person broke into my apartment, hid under my bed until I returned home, shattered my front door, vandalized my office, and terrorized my friends. I wasn’t online, then. I believe that the real danger to your safety are the people you already know, or who happen to see you on a street, or randomly attack. I don’t think I’m any more compromised by telling you my life on my blog. Certain precautions are taken of course. I don’t name my children, or my husband, or my street, or broadcast where I am every minute of the day. But I’m not so daft to think these details can’t be discovered. As with anyone else, whether they write online or not.
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In 2003, I interviewed for a position with a government organization. I sailed through the process, thanks to undergoing approximately 67 job application processes just like it in my career. After the third interview, I felt pretty confident that I would be extended an offer. Then a week went by, and another. I couldn’t figure out why I’d heard nothing, not even received a rejection, and so on a hunch I checked my blog stats. And there it was: A URL navigating my site that I recognized instantly from the .gov extension. I’d been discovered, and obviously deemed a — I don’t know? — security threat?
I wonder at this still. I mean, does a personal blog suggest unprofessionalism? Even if I do talk about blatantly private matters? Because every office I’ve ever worked? People are sharing their personal business all over the place. Cubicle talks, happy hours, water cooler chats. We are humans with human problems and issues and lives. Why is it wrong to be upfront about it?
At the very least? Points for the ability to string sentences together and tell the truth? I’ve worked with a lot of “professionals” who did neither very well.
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I’d just moved into town and attended a party. Everyone began talking about this and that, and soon enough I found myself in the company of a delightful young mom who started talking about postpartum suckiness.
“I know,” I said. “I haven’t felt right since my second pregnancy. It’s like my body went into perimenopausal shock.”
“I get it,” she agreed. “What do you do about the vaginal dryness?”
My mouth fell open. Really? We hardly knew each other.
Seems I met my match.
Awhile ago, that same woman wrote me:
“Was just thinking of you and wanted to thank you for the support at the party. I finally did start Zoloft, after seeing a psychiatrist specializing in postpartum depression. I’m finally starting to feel better. Just talking with you helped me to realize that this was a step I needed to take.”
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I texted my friend, “I’m going to be in the paper.”
She replied, “What did you do now?”
I told her and she tsk-tsked because she is protective and knows all too well the consequences of my big mouth, most notably when I announced in a national magazine that I drink a lot of wine.
Because I do.
Because it’s the truth.
Because I say and write the true words.
And because maybe someone else feels like I do. Or will be inspired to tell her truth. To drop the veil.
To me, that’s worth the sacrifice of my entire neighborhood knowing my true self.
Pretty much.
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My husband calls down to me from his perch upstairs, “SAN DIEGO MOMMA!”
I know I’m in trouble.
My most recent post recounted our budget, my fear about money, our working hard and getting less, and The Rock wanted me to take it down.
And I did. Because he’s my husband and he didn’t agree to have his life shared like I’ve decided to share mine.
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Whatever you choose to say or not say, there’s a reason, a motive, an intention, an outcome. Everyone has a line they choose to cross or not.
In retrospect, if it hadn’t been for my oversharing, I wouldn’t have gained the writing partner I have now and am so blessed to call a friend. I wouldn’t have “won” some of my writing gigs that heal my soul and pay my bills, I wouldn’t reap the benefits of this space that’s my therapy and heart.
So I choose to continue. Despite the risks, it feels right to me.
And you do what feels right to you.
P.S. I’m trying desperately to add social media icons to my site because I’m trying to be very 21st century with my blog, but I’ve mucked it all up, which is why you’ll see some wily nily icons at the top of this post, when they should be at the bottom. And horizontal, when now they’re vertical.
Just thought I’d “share.”
