Why an online confessional?

The other day, someone commiserated with a friend who said he didn’t dare to be himself in the company of a certain person, and she formulated it thusly: “I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to censor your personality like that all the time.”

And I was flabbergasted.

And then I wondered why I was flabbergasted, and I realized that I thought everyone censored themselves all the time. Everyone. All the time. Because behind the social mask, there are unspeakable things that can never see the light of day, right?

Wrong. Apparently I’m wrong. Apparently there are people out there who let their true personalities out. Among others! For me, that sounds equal to unmuzzling your gene manipulated pitbull from hell, but hey, to each his own.

Maybe I’m being naïve. People are different, and while some are socially cautious, others are very open. But the mere thought of someone going through life without censoring themselves every second of every day… let’s just say that it was an eye opener for me.

So. Needless to say, I censor myself. Constantly. Even on here, believe it or not, although my online filters leave something to be desired. And this has led me to a conclusion as painful as they come: I’m not completely ready to fight for others, because I’m not done fighting for myself. Sure, I feel for people who face all sorts of discrimination, and occasionally I speak up against injustice – but there’s a childish, wounded part of me that resents doing it. It’s like Treebeard’s line from The Two Towers: “I’m on nobody’s side, because nobody’s on my side.”

You may argue against this, and you’d be right. There are plenty of people who are on my side. To some extent, society favours people like me. In other ways, it doesn’t. There are aspects of my personality that are problematic enough that if I’m ostracized, it can be viewed as my own fault.

And how do you reconcile yourself with that?

The answer is, you kind of don’t. I can never get over certain things that have happened to me, because every time I think about them, this one overhanging truth crushes out any healing: it was your own fault. For breaking the rules of the society that feeds you.

Maybe it’s not true, or maybe it is. Either way, it makes me resentful. Even as I want to help others, a part of me screams “And what about me? Who helps me? Who wants to fight for the rights of the critical introvert who doesn’t want to hold people’s babies?”

So there’s a reason this blog is a collection of pouty diatribes. I have so much anger, and I know why, too. I forbid myself to hurt because of shame, and that’s not a healthy way to live. Problem is, knowing doesn’t help.

Let me say that again: KNOWING DOESN’T HELP.

Okay, that was a friendly reminder to myself, because as an INTP, I tend to think knowledge solves everything. It doesn’t. Why doesn’t it? Because feelings don’t care if you’ve come to the rational conclusion that you’re a whiny privileged brat who shouldn’t complain. Feelings go on feeling. Feelings say, “But look at all this poor-me stuff! How can you ignore the poor-me stuff? Even you hate me, and you’re me!”

So I’ve tried for years and years to forbid myself to feel bad. To talk myself into feeling the right kind of feelings. And all I’m managing is to build a giant pile of smouldering anger that makes me lash out at people close to me.

Not the greatest tack.

So what’s the alternative? Shrink? HA HA. Well, I don’t know where you live, but on my local nutter-o-meter, I’m not even registering, so they couldn’t care less. Medication? That would be like taking aspirin for a headache you got from not drinking enough water. Talking to friends? Ha, well. I’ll discuss that one another day.

So I’ve tried starting an anonymous blog, just as a hole in a tree or paper bag to shout into, a place where no one knows that all this steaming crap comes from my head, but it doesn’t work, because it’s not me. I need to say these things as-me, and then get rejected or understood as the case may be, but saying them as someone else is completely pointless.

So I wind up with this blog, which should be showcasing my books and the topics in them instead of my poor self esteem and crappy personality. No matter. I’ve said it before, I know, but I’m going to use it as my confessional. (And every night, I’ll consider deleting the whole thing to rid the world of my stupidity. Maybe one day I will.)

And here’s what I fear will happen: people will be offended by what I write, get sick of me and put me on their never-TBR list. And maybe shout at me in the comments. Okay. If that’s the worst that can happen, so be it. They would probably feel the same after reading my whiny characters anyway, so there’s really no harm done. :D