The Fearful Blogger

That’s what I should call myself: The Fearful Blogger. I don’t think I’m quite fearless enough for the blogging world.

So much I want to write about — so many fears that stop me. Who will read it? My mother, potentially everyone I sent my (apparently somewhat controversial) Christmas letter to? I can’t write about Christmas and how I never want to celebrate it again. How, by my reckoning, I was actually quite polite by refraining to discuss the ending of a certain relationship and just skip onto the good things. Rather than being insensitive about it.

Because those people involved might read this, and then they’ll call me and potentially bitch at me and I’ll hear about it to no end. As much as I want to express myself, I am a woman, after all, programmed to want people to like me and to sacrifice myself and my thought to that end. Rather than just say what I want to say and be OK with the world calling me a bitch. I have a hard time being completely honest in a forum as potentially as public as this. But it’s the only way I want to be, ultimately. Everything else feels like a farce, feels fake and instead of nurturing me, it silences. That’s why I don’t write.

And I know I can write as much honesty as I want in my journal. But I keep getting the self-indulgent feeling that I have something to say to OTHER PEOPLE, not just myself. Potential other people, that is. Other than my mother who reads this thing all the time and my brother who checks it occasionally and maybe a co-worker or two. Or a lost surfer.

And then there’s the proper British part of me that I can’t quite smack down as much as the French part tries. The one that exclaims, “Oh! That simply isn’t done! You mustn’t air your dirty laundry to the neighbours! How disgusting! How degrading for you, dear.”

Great. I have class. I have an inborn sense of manners and what’s acceptable and what’s not. And it’s honestly hard for me to flount it like it doesn’t matter. Even singing songs about my weaknesses… songs that are honest. They’re not easy to sing. But easier than spouting artificial crap, all in all.