Wearing your vulnerabilities on your sleeve

I didn’t get around to blogging yesterday, but I did have a post published on one of my favourite websites (!!!!) – it’s talking about something I’d originally written about on this blog – hair loss. I was so proud of myself for opening up about something that’s really impacted my self esteem over the years (you can read the piece here), particularly because when I last tried to talk about on this blog I’d really struggled to fully be open about my experience/feelings – it’s hard to open up about the most vulnerable parts of yourself and put them out there for the world to see.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer – I’ve just always written for as long as I can remember and I struggle to express things properly in conversation, am pretty introverted and just can’t quite see myself doing anything else and being truly content. And I’ve always been as open and honest as possible in my writing, whether that made the writing seem lazy or overdramatic or angsty as hell. But when I started sharing stuff online I suddenly became self conscious of that. In some ways, this is definitely something I need to work on – it comes with wanting to be a writer to put yourself out there, expose yourself and your insecurities and your emotions to others. But I also think there’s this sense on the internet that you must bear your soul when expressing opinions and I struggle with it – it can be so emotionally draining and I don’t always have the energy to share my perspective on issues because the place that that perspective comes from is so deeply personal. It’s something I’m trying to get more comfortable with and figure out my boundaries surrounding and I hope I’ll get there in the end. But until then, I’ll try and keep reminding myself that I don’t have to expose the rawest, most vulnerable moments in a quick tweet responding to the news of the day. I don’t have to share anything I’m not comfortable with. And that doesn’t mean that I don’t care or that I’m not honest or that I’m less of a writer.

musings about a book i can’t quite regret

It’s not been three months since the first few copies of a little pink book found their way into cardboard packaging, into postal vans, into different houses and different people’s hands. I let them out into the world with the knowledge of the fact that I’d outgrow the content – outgrow the desperate desire to quickly put something together that made the shit before it worth it, to make the fight to get past it all tangible. I’m not sure I anticipated that feeling coming around as quickly as it did. I haven’t dared glance through a copy. Can’t quite bring myself to want to edit everything with it, cut out most, fill the rest with new ideas and new pieces and new formats. But I’m working on accepting that that’s part of creation, that that’s a sign I’m doing things and working in the right direction – rather than floating through with a soothing idea of ‘one day’ getting around to something I’m relatively proud of. This blog has been stagnant, my willingness to try and create has been non-existent and the crippling insecurities have come back in full force. I’m trying to remember they’re likely always going to be present to some degree and that approval seeking is only worthwhile when it’s from myself.