Why I'm Afraid to Let You Read What I'm Writing

Too much of how I feel about myself is all tied up in how you feel about me. Good or bad, important or not, I value your opinion. Even if I don’t know you, I’ll take your response personally. Even if you just evaluate the grammar, I’ll internalize it and somehow manipulate your comments into a personal attack. They’re not meant that way. My brain knows that on the most basic level, but the emotional side of my brain doesn’t believe the rational side of my brain so I will struggle to keep the writing separate from who I am.

Except that, in a way, the writing is who I am. We are one and the same. It’s my thoughts and my opinions and my imagination run amok and my contribution to the world, however insignificant in the long run. It’s what will remain when I’m gone. So if you don’t appreciate it, if you don’t like it, if you don’t respond to it, what was the point of it? Why did I bother? If what I created isn’t worth your notice, does that mean I’m not worth it, either?

Again, I know that’s not true. I know my worth extends far beyond some words on a page. My contribution to the world is so much more than a physical remnant. My most valuable impression will not be measured by its physical presence. It will be the cheer that someone feels when they remember our interaction or the smile that creeps across their face when something reminds them of me.

So I guess what I’m saying is that how you feel about my writing will affect how I feel about myself, but I hope what you remember most about me is not my writing but me. Just me. My smile and my heart and the love and laughter I shared with you. I hope my writing doesn’t get in the way of that, and if all you have of me is my writing, I suppose my writing had better be full of love and laughter.