I’m calling bullshit on myself.*
I’m not being honest on this blog. Not that, you know, I’m making stuff up or anything… but I’m not really being me or, at least, I'm not being the whole me. I’m not talking about what’s really going on in my life. I’m curating (I hate that word so much). I’m editing. It’s all real, I guess, but it’s not the most real.
One of my favourite blogs (that I only discovered fairly recently) is Hey Natalie Jean. I spent some time over the weekend reading through all her old posts; about infertility and the heartache of pregnancy tests and trials in her life. And I was just in awe of how raw and honest and real she was in this place, a place that felt like it really reflected her. A couple of weeks ago, I read Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things, and I loved it because, again, of how unflinchingly honest it was. Heart-wrenchingly real and beautiful and fucked up and glorious. I don’t believe in a god, but I do believe in Cheryl Strayed, and I swear to the universe that that book is now my bible. At the end of each column/chapter, I was simultaneously crying and fist-pumping. It’s that good (go read it, seriously).
Those two ladies have made me take a good hard look at myself/this blog and I was a bit confused by what I saw. Orderly, when my life is a crazy-wonderful mess. Generic, when I know (hope?) I’m not. So fuck that shit. There’s enough of that online for any number of anxious, envy-ridden ladies like myself to obsess over. I don’t even like that stuff. It’s not what makes my heart sing, to get all woo-woo on you. Hearing about the real stuff? That’s the ticket.
I remember, in primary school, being jealous of the way some girls’ ponytails stayed so glossy and smooth and polished through the day. Now, I’m jealous of people who can wear white without ruining, say, the expensive t-shirt that I really had no business buying in the first place. That’s the place where this blog has been coming from, and I’m done. I mean, I still wouldn’t mind a glossy pony, but that’s not who I am. Pretending that all the stuff going on beneath the surface of this blog – the personal stuff – isn’t there isn’t working for me.
A couple of weeks ago, a story I wrote went into one of the Sunday newspapers (I’m going to chuck it up later this week, in case you want a read). It was a hard one to write – I don’t often write first person pieces, particularly about things that make me feel vulnerable, like body image. But I wrote it, and my editor loved it, and I - after freaking out and questioning whether I could write it at all, and when I did write it, whether I really wanted so much of myself out there - loved it. And I only got abused by a couple of kids on Twitter. That felt good (not the abuse, the other stuff). It felt brave. It felt like me.
So, shit’s going to get real. There’ll still be the froth and fun that I also enjoy, but I don’t want to be just another blogger trying to show off a perfect life that isn’t legit. Here’s to vulnerability and showing the cracks and keeping it weird and messy ponytails. It’s good to be home.
*Wasn’t that a great scene in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days? I freaking love that movie, and I wish they’d pair those two up again. Except for that bad movie they were in, where they were on a boat, which only reminded me of Houseboat and how great Goldie Hawn is, and then sad that her daughter was in such a terrible, terrible movie. ANYWAY.