Tonight, my sister and I went to a Post Secret event. It was definitely a great evening. There were moments of shock, lots of laughter, choking back of tears, and compassion – especially at the end of the night when he invited people to go up to mics in the aisle ways and share their own secrets.
My mind was spinning through all of my archives of embarrassing moments, guilty pleasures, and personal regrets, trying to think of a secret to share. I thought of one, and my heart started pounding and I got butterflies while thinking about how to word it. After the third sentence, I thought everyone sharing right now is perfectly wording their secrets, and started to feel anxious that mine was too wordy. I began a miniature obsession about if my secret is good enough or concise enough or shocking enough. And I thought about how to get the greatest level of understanding of my secret. And I think I started to break a sweat.
Then, I realized my secret was something completely other than the one I was planning out so thoroughly, and I realized exactly why and how my secret was my secret.
When I was a little girl, in first grade, I developed a habit of making up secrets for attention. Anything from, “I’m already 6-years-old” when I was only five to “my baby brother died in a house fire which destroyed our whole home which he started.” (Yes, I actually said that. To my teacher.) Anyways, this is kind of embarrassing, and I’ve had moments in middle and high school where I start to say something similar – not to that severe of a degree, but just to be able to better relate to the conversation or get people interested.
Now, I understand that that was childish and self-centered. So now I’m super conscious about saying anything. Honestly, I believe this is a large contributor to my social phobia.
This may seem unrelated, but bear with me. One thing I am aware of is that no matter how bad things seem to be for me, some one else always has it worse. My own car is currently out of commission due to an accident – but at least I have my mom’s van to borrow. My family’s having a hard time selling our house – but at least we have someplace to live. I have to wake up at 5:30 or 6 most mornings for school – but at least I have the means to get a university education. I may have body image issues – but at least I’m not hospitalized due to damage done from laxatives, not eating for days, or forced purging and internal bleeding.
I understand that I may be dissatisfied with my life, but some one else out there actually has something to worry about. And that statement is exactly why I couldn’t share a secret tonight. I may have something embarrassing or an insecurity or regret, but all these other people have actual stories to tell. Everyone else deserves the attention of sharing their secret. I’ve never been molested (thank God), nor have I ever told my ex’s next girlfriend a secret he shared with me that cause her to abort his baby, nor have I watched my grandmother die of cancer. Those people have actual things to say. Everyone else deserves to share their secret. And I feel like I’m just saying things to get attention. I’m terrified that what I have to say is invalid, insincere, or irrelevant.
My secret is that I’m so scared that anything I have to say is insincere, or that my brain is just bringing it up for attention or that anything I’m going through isn’t nearly as real or severe as what some one else has been through or has to say, and therefore invalid. I feel inadequate when I’m not concise. If I add something unnecessary in my response in class to a professor in the morning, I think about how I should have edited it or re-verbalized it entirely for the rest of the day (and sometimes into the next).
This is why I have (and perhaps will) never be able to write a song. This is the reason for my current writer’s block (going on a whole year now; it’s terrible). If I try to come up with something poetic or artsy, I’m afraid it feels all flowery and fake and forced and dumb. No matter how badly I feel like writing, some one out there has a real message to get across, so I don’t write. Some one out there has an actual story to tell. Some one else out there has real inspiration.
My social phobia, my writer’s block, my brain’s processes.
My secret.
