I haven’t done a lot of publicity with this blog, so I got surprised last night when someone I actually know started following me. I wrote her on Facebook and thanked her for following me, and she replied and said nice things about the blog, but also said that she did not realize how bad I had it when I was young, either with my folks or with my peers at school.
The feelings her comments brought up were strange. She is what I consider to be my oldest friend. We met when we were three. We went through preschool, grade school, high school, and college at the same place. We varied at times how close we were. In college, I dropped her with the rest of my hometown friends to embrace a set of friends I felt understood me better. We’ve reconnected at various points over the years but just recently started talking again over Facebook.
The weird feeling was that here was someone reading that knows the people I talk about when I talk about my childhood. It’s one thing for a stranger to read this blog and come away with an idea of what I’m talking about. It’s another feeling knowing someone who thought they knew me reading some of the stuff I’ve posted. I wonder how my harsh descriptions of my mom made her feel. I wonder if she remembers certain events the same way I do. I don’t know how to really explain the feeling. I wonder who she will tell about the blog and what that person would think about me laying my life out here for all to see. My immediate family doesn’t know about my blog. I wonder how they would feel if they did.
The conclusion I came to is that this is MY story, and As long as I am as honest as I can be without hurting the innocent, I can tell it however I choose to. Covering up is what we folks with mental illness have done for far too long. So here I am Read me.