Blogging about yourself is like picking your nose in front of the jury deliberating your fate.
Even that oddball booger-eater from the first grade had the good sense to wait for quiet time before he went excavating. Not so for the brassy memoirist. She proudly picks that booger, holds it aloft on the witness stand; she exclaims in delight like it’s a prize worthy of praise. Oohing and aahing at her uniqueness, she’s unconcerned when everyone else discreetly reaches for their tissue.
I’m neurotic (undiagnosed), so being self-conscious comes naturally[1].
I expected the memoir to challenge me, to be the vehicle through which I grow, but I’ve realized without this blog, the memoir would’ve sputtered out long ago. My fear would have consumed this project before it started.
Sharing pieces of my life online—first by talking about my daddy, then the writers who inspire me, and finally about myself—allowed me to stop fretting about what could happen once I publish my memoir. I know now, for the most part, how my community will receive me, and it’s with open arms. Which makes sense, because that’s how I’d receive anyone who shared their story with me. I’m not sure why I didn’t understand that before.
Except, I’m insecure. Compared to many in America, I live a privileged life; that thought is never far from my mind. When writing Money Over Matter, I feared how others might view me for whingeing about something material that countless people badly need. Behind the scenes, I was writing a difficult chapter for the memoir about the subject. Maybe I could’ve included details from my child-self to better illustrate my point, but the thought made me feel queasy. I feel that same churning in my gut every time I attempt to write about my childhood. It makes me want to avoid that period altogether.
Mary Karr explains it best (because of course she does) on page 21 of her how-to masterwork, The Art of Memoir:
Early on, I was lied to—often and with conviction—kicked off by two phrases: “I’m not drunk” (most always a lie) and “Oh, don’t worry; everything’s fine,” which was true just often enough to mess with my head…this quite literally made me crazy. I grew up not trusting my perceptions, and buying Freud’s theory that the truth would free me, I set out on a lifelong quest to figure out what the hell happened in my childhood.
O, how Karr speaks to me, for I too was often lied to and told everything’s just fine when my tummy’s constant somersaults said otherwise.
Now as an adult (only ADD, or after Dad’s death), I abhor liars. I used to be the type to sugarcoat the truth or sidestep a tough discussion to avoid hurting feelings, but now even that feels dishonest. I don’t mean to imply that I’m perfect; we all fall short of our own expectations sometimes. Lying is a part of human nature, and some lies can be beneficial. But mostly, liars really get under my skin. (I get that from my momma.)
When I try to write about a childhood memory, my fingers twitch, unsure. I don’t feel the same insecurity when writing about my dad’s final years, as the probate process provided mountains of evidence. Almost everything I write about can be backed up with something tangible, be it a text, email, photo, or social media post. Maybe my mistake was choosing to write about those easily verifiable things first, spoiled by the documents[2] I could reference should I be feeling lazy that day.
I don’t think that’s the truth of it. Rather, it’s more about a lack of faith in myself and my perception of the past.
As a child, my reality was constantly called into question. I was told that the things I experienced didn’t happen the way I said, or it wasn’t so bad as I made it out to be. Nothing that happened to me in my childhood was terrible, of course, especially when compared to the lives of so many others. But I’d never lie, even as a snot-nosed kid, about something that had happened to me.
Just writing this post has my leg anxiously tapdancing, because I know there are people I care about—and who my dad cared about—who will disagree with my memory of the past. That’s why I’ve hesitated to write about my childhood, and it’s kept me from fully diving into this memoir. That probably sounds rich coming from me, given all I’ve written about Misiree, but I don’t want to hurt this other person. It’s left me conflicted, and I’m running out of time to decide what to do about it. I can only write around it for so long.
Usually, writing a blog post helps me work through my thoughts. I actively solve my problem by the end. Not this time.
I think I fear being called a liar or being told—again, but as an adult this time—that I’m wrong and these things never happened to me. Hell, that’s already happened for some stories I’ve posted to my blog, and I actually have proof backing them up. How much worse am I going to feel once I share things about my childhood with nothing but a few sporadic emails to bolster my claims? Will I believe the lies being told about me? I did when I was younger, and it really warped my self-esteem. I’m not sure my brand-new, fragile, happy-go-lucky outlook on life could withstand such pressure.
Whatever I decide to do, I must decide it quickly. I’ve been writing the memoir backwards (recent years first) to avoid my childhood, and that won’t last for much longer.
[1] Damn, I just realized (by writing this post) that I don’t know how accurate this is anymore. By opening up online, I seem to have dropped some of my insecurities. Well, “dropped” isn’t the best word. I’ve just stopped caring what others think about me. I’ll admit, this is less true for in-person interactions. When forced to inhabit this body of mine, I still feel like an awkward turtle looming above everyone else.
[2] I should note that I do have some documentation from my childhood, mostly in the form of emails and faxes, which Mom kept nice and neat in a file for future-me (at the time, she was saving things in case she needed evidence for court).
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Nothing you write will please everyone because that’s just people being people. Personally, I would write my truth as best I could and let the chips fall where they may. I am not myself a believer, but the Bible does make sense at times. This is a case in point:
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” John 8:32.
It’s more a problem of trusting myself or my child-POV. Writing about my childhood, I feel insecure all over again and start to doubt myself in a way I don’t now as an adult.
Why would your mom be saving emails from you for evidence in court? Of course you want to write the truth. What would be the point of not writing the truth? Seems that you are discussing the writing process this time rather than the substance of what troubles you about your childhood. Will that be next?
She printed out her own emails—between you and her, her and her friends, but mainly the ones between her and Dad. Probably from your advice! When she was having issues with Dad and thinking she might have to go back to divorce court, or whatever that’s called. And yes, I think you’re right. I’m not quite brave enough to go that far yet—more venting about what ails me, what hinders me from writing. It’s worse than writers block.