The Rewrite
I deactivated my Facebook and no one related to me noticed. The story of my life.
Which is literally, the Story of My Life.
I’ve been receiving a new batch of hate mail. I don’t know if they’re both from the same person? Or was the second inspired by the first? Or is it two entirely separate people unaffected by those who came previous? Or is it an alternate-dimension me, saying things to myself that I have already thought previously?
Which reminds me of the time a troll on Twitter who called me a “fat, ugly cunt.”
I responded: It’s not like you’re saying anything to me that my own mother hasn’t said.
Anyway.
Here we are. I’ve had a been of hiatus from these things (that seems to be a theme of my life lately). I’ve had plenty to say, but not a lot of places to say it. The more people who read, the less inclined I am to share anything. This probably goes against everything you’ve previously thought about my character. Surprise! I am still a roving flesh sack stuffed with contradictions.
I have never been one for a Best Friend. I have heard and read and witnessed firsthand this phenomenon, but it’s not something I’ve ever been successful at. Actually — that’s unfair. It’s never been anything I’ve really attempted.
In this season’s You’re the Worst there’s an episode where Gretchen and Jimmy find a couple that they’re totally simpatico with, and Gretchen discovers a friendship that isn’t based on toxic behaviors. Initially, it’s a relief, until she blows it all up during a dinner party because it’s fucking boring. I’m not a Gretchen (I am not narcissistic nor pretty in the correct way), but I understand her nature, her ability to identify this isn’t for me, because this isn’t me. I don’t get this.
Whether that’s nature or nurture, I don’t know. I look back over my life and recall multiple instances where I told something wasn’t for me. Whether it was what I looked like or sounded like or acted like, whether it was the family that I was born to or the circumstances of my life. There was a list of things that I was told that I did not get. And for the longest time, I simply accepted that as part of my fundamental state of being.
And then I began therapy last year. It wasn’t something I had done before, and it was something that I always fought against. If I didn’t need things, if I didn’t feel things, if I was able to tamp down my too-muchness, then what was the point? But it became clear one Sunday afternoon that it was going to continue to be a person in the world, it was something I needed to do.
As we unraveled the bullshit of my life, my therapist asked who do you tell your secrets to?
I shrugged. No one, really.
Why not? she asked.
Because people like the idea of me and not the reality of me.
Why would you say that?
Finally, a question I could answer. Because I’m too much.
When it came to telling secrets, the Internet, and blogging specifically, cracked the door a tiny bit. But I could still control the narrative, shape the facts, rewrite the story so it wasn’t too much. I could serve up my secrets in fun-size snacks that were palatable and funny. Because the most important part was that it was a story and people were entertained, not an actual thing that happened to an actual person.
And it worked. Faceless people on the Internet loved it. And eventually some of those faceless people grew faces. (Okay, they always had faces. Just go with me here.) They became friends, lovers, even a spouse.
But I still doled out everything a little bit at a time. Always careful to hold back, to not to be too much. Honestly, it wasn’t that difficult, because I never really opened the door that wide. Just enough to feed the monster inside, and then seal it back up until I needed more material to stoke whatever story I was telling.
I was never close to anyone. I just made them feel close, because for them, I would crack the door open a tiny bit more. Let them get a peek at the monster, then slam the door shut.
And then I started therapy.
Therapy didn’t just open that door; it ripped it off its hinges and set the monster free. I was bleeding out emotionally. But I couldn’t stop. The monster bulldozed through my life, shitting out feelings everywhere. Too much was the default.
And I knew that once it was released, there was no going back. The monster is who I am now. And while together we’re finding our equilibrium, it’s forced me into some hard truths. Mostly about what I want. And what I’m willing to do about it.
It’s also revealed that there are some people who like the idea of me more than the reality of me. And it turns out I’m one of them. Or at least I was.
I’m working on it.
I asked my therapist how I managed to hold this together for so long. Why didn’t I crack up earlier?
Because you’re smart, she said. And you know how to write a story.
She’s right. Writing a story is the one thing I’ve always known how to do.
And it’s clear that my first draft needs some work.
So it’s time to rewrite.