Today I was watching a reality TV show, which is something I do a lot less of now than I used to, and I found myself saying out loud “I’m not interested in your story!”
And I thought to myself wow that was harsh and it made me think why is that when someone is so-called “baring their soul” on national tv that I just don’t buy it. I never really have bought it. It feels fake, contrived and it feels like I am being treated, by the TV producers, like I have no brain. The stories are often very underwhelming and yet the tears flow freely. I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel all that honest.
This then makes me look to myself again and I think about tough times I have been through and how contrived and ingenuous it sounds to my own ears when I repeat them back to others. Is it because we are surrounded by so much fiction and make-believe that even an honest story feels contrived?
More and more these days I am looking for motives behind these outpourings on TV. If the soul goal of sharing such intimate details is to gain an advantage over someone else then can we really view the story as genuine?
The thing is I really like stories, particularly the stories of the people I know.
I started a blog to share some of my story. I started it because I have stories that I want to share and I have thoughts. They are sometimes hard to put into words when speaking with those around me but much easier to put down on paper. What is my motive? I think it’s just an old fashioned need to put pen to paper and I like having that vessel of a blog to put my stories in. I think of it like a big glass jar that I am slowly filling with pieces of paper that together form the story of my life. I hope to fill it to the brim one day so I can say “enough”.
Years ago, many years now, I wrote often. Always fantastical fictional pieces about a life I might like to lead. They usually revolved around a princess and some sweeping saga that spanned countries and involved dragons and all kinds of wonderful creatures. I don’t think I could even locate one of these stories in tangible form anymore but they are still here in my head. Kind of like an internal library of my past creations that I carry with me everywhere. I often think I should put them all down onto paper but then something holds me back. I kind of like having my own private stash of the stories of my youth. Just sitting there waiting to be read by me.
This is a somewhat rambling post but I have decided that it’s good to share our stories. It’s good because someone else might read it or hear it and think wow I’m not alone. It’s good because just putting it out there releases it from your mind. Those hard memories, the difficult ones that gnaw at you when you least expect it. The ones that flare up and remind you of the awkward things you once said or did. The regretful experiences.
So I am probably going to start sharing some low lights with you too. The moments where I could crawl back inside myself with shame. The reason is that by sharing them I get them out of my head and I put them into that big glass jar so they can no longer be in my own secret place where I am the only one who can see them. I want to embrace the awkward with the good and I hope you don’t mind if I share my story with you, the reader, and I won’t be offended if you don’t want to hear my story.
