He just gives it away

Sometimes I write a thing and give no thoughts to how someone will read and interpret what I say.

That always bites me in the ass.

Censoring myself or considering feelings is fucking arduous. This life is my story to tell and I spend an inordinate amount of it being careful with the words I put down on paper.

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” - Anne Lamott

That's one half of it. The other half is that all of these stories make up me. I am the stories I tell; the non-fiction and the fiction. If I write a word of it, it is a thing that has lived inside of me.

Those were the things I was thinking about yesterday walking the beach listening to Given.

I blame Junot Diaz.

I was thinking about his story about being raped. I was thinking about how flattering it was that one of my friends thought I wrote it. Seriously, being mistaken for my favorite writer is never not going to make me smile.

I thought about my friend, Liz, who introduced me to Sr. Diaz's writing. She sent me a text that she was planning on reading that story on a plane. I suggested she wait til she's alone.

It'll make you angry and sad. And if you've ever experienced anything like what he writes about you may want to just read it in private. 

She opted to wait til after her meeting and read it on the flight home.

So I blamed Liz because without her there is no Junot Diaz. Then I laughed at my own ridiculousness.

The truth is that it is nobody's fault. Well, nobody's fault but mine. I censor me, nobody else does.

TGB came home as I was in the midst of reading the Diaz article and could tell something was up but, didn't push. I wasn't done reading and I didn't want to stop so she left me be.

I was hollow by the time I got to the end of it.

I've told my own story piecemeal over the course of my life. Some I've written here. A small number of people who matter to me have heard it.

As Eddie sang in my ear yesterday I caught myself wondering, why haven't you told your story - all of it?

Because mom and I get along-ish now and it would hurt her. 

She should have behaved better.

I left that thought alone and wondered about other things I have written and all of the things in my head still unwritten. The times in my life that people have been upset for one reason or another by what I write... the times I don't say what I want to say exactly the way I want to say it as a result.

Yeah, I am pretty much done with that shit.

Titty sprinkles


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