“Enough about me. What do you think about me?”<\/p>\n
Does that sound familiar? You know the type of self-absorbed person I’m talking about. And I really try not to be her. <\/p>\n
That’s precisely why I didn’t write about myself for a very long time–I was afraid of being self-indulgent. So instead I published compilations of other people’s self-indulgent essays. <\/p>\n
And then I realized that the articles and books that I most enjoyed–that helped me tremendously in my spiritual journey and recovery–were memoirs and personal essays. I didn’t care that they were self-indulgent. In fact, I liked that they were self-absorbed. Because it freed me to be self-reflective, as well, and try to be a more loving person. People like Anne Lamott and Kathleen Norris and Erma Bombeck have instructed me with the lessons from their own lives. <\/p>\n
But writing about yourself is a terrible business to be in (much like being a stripper) if you are the sensitive type, like I am. <\/p>\n
When you publish your diary online, you invite cheap shots. I know that. I prepare for them every morning when I stand in front of the mirror and say, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggoneit, people like me!” <\/p>\n
And you can be sure to contract all kinds of venom–even well-intentioned venom–when you write about topics like depression and mental illness that are so widely misunderstood in our culture.<\/p>\n
I know that too.<\/p>\n
But it doesn’t keep me from getting hurt. Because even (especially) when I dish out my opinionated and raw stuff, I make myself vulnerable to readers. I don’t know how I could write about my recovery honestly (I repeat, honestly) without removing my clothes and exposing all sorts of moles and cellulite patches to the public.<\/p>\n