To Share or Not To Share

I've always been kind of a sharer. Perhaps an over-sharer - with my friends at least. And I suppose even with strangers. I will admit I'm not always the best at sharing with my partner (hate that word but can't locate another at the moment). That's not what this is about though. More on that in another post. Suffice it to say there are a whole host of reasons why sharing in love has become quite difficult for me though I am fighting like hell to reveal my most over-sharing transparent self in my relationship. Back to my point...

Privacy has never been a major concern. It's just not something I think about a ton. I don't mind not having much of it. I give up a great deal of it willingly, every day. When I was writing my book there were more than a few moments when I took pause and said to myself: I probably shouldn't share this. It's humiliating... or It's ugly. Not a side of myself I want to show.

But I came to the conclusion that the ugliest parts, the most shameful bits, were the parts that I most had to lean into. To share with the most honesty. I find salvation, communion when others share their darkest moments. I inhale memoirs to find these tidbits. It is in Mary Karr's Lit or Caroline Knapp's Drinking A Love Story (despite this list I don't actually have a drinking problem) or listening to Brene Brown talk about her own battles with shame that I find connection. And I feel less ashamed. Less alone. So I figure if I can do this, others who read what I write (no matter how few) will connect and their own shame may dissipate. And I write about personal stuff because it helps to dissolve my own gut ripping self-reproach and gloom. It's as if the air hitting the words diminishes the sharpness of the thing itself.

And so it's just become second nature. To share. To over share. I've paused at times and thought to myself: can this put me in a bad position professionally? Perhaps. The people I work with, for, near may not think highly of a serial blabbermouth. But I said to myself long ago, if anyone wants to banish me for attempting to become a half way not shitty writer, for revealing things that matter to me, that hurt me, that make me joyful, then I suppose I need to rethink my profession. If writing stuff is as important to me as my career, then I should be able to do both at the same time. And I am oh so grateful that I have been afforded that opportunity.

As I was talking to a colleague the other day she was telling me she'd quit Facebook due to privacy concerns. She didn't want work friends friending her. She didn't want everyone knowing everything. She didn't want Facebook knowing everything. I get it. But it's so not me. I stopped in my tracks for a moment to rethink my approach. Am I crazy? Where are my boundaries? What kind of narcissistic exhibitionist puts it all out there, all the time?

I suppose I'll regret it one day - and I have at times when I've "over-shared" something that wasn't necessarily mine to share - but I think any regret will be minor and fairly recoverable. It's a purposeful choice to live my life in this way, to share my thoughts to dissipate the shame. And it works for me.

I'm not talking about posting pictures on Facebook. Who cares. I like to post them so my mom can see what's happening with my kids. I'm talking about sharing all the icky stuff. The sheer panic of being alone for the first time in my adult life. The desperate loneliness of not seeing my kids from Sunday to Tuesday and being terrified they will never want to return to me. The nearly intolerable blackness that overwhelms upon ending a marriage despite knowing it's the right thing to do. The piercing self-disgust of knowing I didn't do it in the right way, if there can be one. Writing about all this stuff makes it a little less hard. A little less frenzied and frantic and devastating and miserable.

Upon thinking this through - again - I feel reaffirmed in this choice for myself. And I find myself in a bit of a conundrum as I embark on a new life with someone who values his privacy, our privacy above most things. I love that he feels this way. He cherishes the moments we have as ours and ours alone. But I find myself at a loss for words as I sit down here now because I don't want to violate his sense of privacy to share my own happy, my own angst, my own anything because what's mine is ours now. But I still want to share. Something.

I will re-navigate these waters. I will find the right balance. I won't violate his trust. But I will find a way to use this approach that works for me, this telegraphing of emotion to free myself of humiliation and remorse, this sharing that softens the edges of my own dark moments, this self-centered amplification of my joy... I'll work it out. We'll work it out. Together we will balance his need for privacy with my chronic urgent compulsion to blab.