It’s exhausting to worry about what people will think.
I am brave, but there are scars.
And if I was someone else, I would think that a very sad thing to say.
Here’s the thing: I’m afraid to write what is on my heart. I’m afraid of hurting someone I know personally. Once upon a time, I had a blog and my work “friends” found it and crucified me. You know that feeling right before you get thrown out of an airplane without a parachute? That’s how it was when I watched my stat counter as the Department Head clicked on an email link to my blog.
Once upon a time, my now-dead little brother called me incessantly in the middle of the night. When I answered, he screamed at me for a long thirty seconds about a post I had written about the death of his friend. “Her family read that!” He didn’t speak to me for six months.
Once upon a time, my aunt discovered that I wasn’t a Christian.
I want to tell my stories. I want to wear them proudly. With utter anonymity, of course. Remember the good old days when your blog was just silly musings on MySpace? Where you were brave and no one questioned your particular form of crazy?
Remember when cyber stalking was a whimsy and no one really gave a fuck about what you said? Because in the vast wide web, no one cared if you were one little young sprout spouting her opinions.
Those were the good old days, man.
A promise to myself. I will type, “fuck.” Loudly. I will not use real names. I will not connect this with anything associated with my IRL stuff. I will be a coward.