I don’t feel an urge to write when I feel I can’t be completely honest. It’s like – what’s the point?
In my entire life I have never lied other than doing it to spare someone’s feelings. Like an insecure classmate in junior college repeatedly asking me if she was pretty. Of course I said yes even though I didn’t think so. That’s the kind thing to do. But on the other hand, I wouldn’t tell someone they are beautiful if I didn’t really think they were. I mean when it’s unsolicited. So if I give you a compliment, I mean it. And for me inner beauty can’t be separated from the equation.
I’m very self conscious about what I put out there and feel like I’m expected to only be positive and see the silver lining and not ever complain, but honestly that’s far from what I actually feel. And the more this is expected of you, the less you are inclined to share.
If I’m sharing personal stuff with you, it means I trust you and it’s because you’re open with me as well. It’s a two way street, which is why I’ve let go of superficial relationships. Life is way too short for small talk.
And I’m good at keeping secrets. If you want me to be a vault? For sure. Is that the Scorpio in me? Well I do believe in loyalty.
Some may see me as oversharing, but that’s what a stage 3 cancer diagnosis and loss does to you. Every cancer survivor in my support group does exactly this, so I’m not alone. When you’re faced with not just mortality but a scary one, it immediately crystallises what matters in life.
I am wracked with anxiety and dramatise situations in my head constantly and berate myself for saying or doing something I deem as stupid. It might be totally negligible to anyone else, but I magnify it. Why did I do that or say that? I should have done this instead. What’s wrong with me. Is it my extreme fatigue and brain fog that leads me to making mistakes like this? Am I of low intelligence? Did all that anaesthesia and chemo affect my brain? Or was I just born with a low capacity and have been kidding myself that I’m any better?
I am painfully self aware and I am the first to know that I overanalyse everything. I so want to stop. It’s beyond exhausting. But even when I try, every insecurity appears in full force in my nightmares. There is no suppressing the subconscience.
Is that the mark of a writer? Or should I say curse?
Whatever it is, I’ll just use it.