I have something to get off my chest.
And it’s this bra.
No, I’m just kidding. Well, I mean, yeah, maybe later, but that’s another story.
Part of the reason I started this blog, particularly anonymously, was to give myself a place to be me. All of me… up, down, and everywhere between. I wanted a place to stop hiding, stop faking it, stop acting [I should have a fucking Academy Award by now], stop pretending to be what others want me to be. And above all else, a place to stop worrying who I might piss off if I said what I really thought. [Origin story of the name ‘what sandra thinks’ in under 25 words…]
No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight.
[Hozier (of course) – Jackie & Wilson]
I was a little scared. [Maybe more than a little.] I wonder if that’s the deep-rooted psychological explanation for titling everything without caps. Still trying to shrink? [Or I just like how lowercase looks aesthetically… I always have.]
But fears aside, I skipped off to my own little blog world [did not actually skip] and wrote some posts. I wrote knowing my husband would never read. [Aside: My husband is one of the reasons I needed an anonymous outlet.] I knew my mom wouldn’t read… nor my sisters. No one I have ever met in the flesh in my entire life would ever read a word I posted here. And no one has.
Free pass! Say whatever the fuck I want.
It was exactly what I needed. No worrying about offending anyone, even those closest to me. No need to censor myself in any way for any reason. A place to just be me.
And that’s who I am. Me. No fear posting stories about my past. No fear posting opinions or rants or random thoughts. And after a little initial anxiety, no [more] fear posting fiction or poetry – even the mature stuff. All good. All me. Saying whatever the fuck I want.
Then… I met you.
I made some friends – better friends than I’ve had offline probably since college. And I know you’re reading my words… true, fictional, poetic…
I began to worry. I began to second-guess every word I was about to post. Am I going to offend someone? Or scare someone? Drive someone away? The very reason I began blogging – to say whatever the fuck I want – began to slip away. The worries from my offline world crept in and spread like a nasty virus.
This virus infected one of my personal—autobiographical—non-fiction posts. I flat out lied about something. One thing. One post. Because I worried what some might think of me… how they might react. I have hated myself for that since I posted it. I am not a liar. Except for that one transgression.
I don’t know what brought you here or why you stay. Obviously, I am awesome but, I mean, what specific aspect of my awesomeness? The true stories? The fiction? The sex? [That is to say, the sex stories… sorry for any confusion.] The poetry? The humor? Just me? I don’t need to know the answer (though I am curious). But whatever the reason, I’d like you to stick around.
So I accidentally, unknowingly started my [non-Oscar-winning] acting career again. Well, acting by way of omission only.
This blog is all me. It’s just not all of me.
And that’s cool. All of me would be a bit much. I’ve never mentioned, for example, the day I forgot until about 30 seconds before my husband got home with the kids that my vibrator was air-drying in the bathroom. True story. [Also, I have more to say about that tool. The vibrator, not my husband, also a tool.]
It kills me, though, when I want to share something and I hold back the same way I would at Mom’s having Thanksgiving dinner with my family. I’m not going to tell my aunt to shut the fuck up no matter how much I may want to. That would not end well for me.
There’re some things that I should never laugh about in front of family.
[The National (of course) – I Need My Girl]
I’ve become cautious here. Holding back, biting my tongue. Not lying – just not saying all I want to say. I never wanted that to happen here! But I’ve come to think… if people are here to laugh or read fiction or poetry, they don’t want to hear about the shit day I had last week or my moodiness or the reason I’m irritated with my husband at the moment or what I really think about {insert controversial topic here}.
No no no… not everything.
Of course, I don’t always want to tell those stories. God no. [See above – all of me would be a bit much. Even for me.] But occasionally, I need to vent… rant… scream. [Don’t worry – you cannot hear me scream. Most likely. Although if you’re within a 100-mile radius of my unconfirmed location, I make no promises.]
It’s nice to feel like I have someone to talk to, someone who will listen… really listen, not sit there and nod occasionally, barely looking away from his phone. Listen. Not really for answers or advice. [And holy fuck, you know how I hate clichés! I don’t even care if they’re often true. That doesn’t change the fact that they are not even a tiny bit helpful. In fact, they make me feel worse. Ugh, spare me, please.] No… none of that. Just a little support and a hug. That’s hard to come by in my ‘real‘ life… (sadly, true story).
[Aside: Oh yes, I do appreciate the incredible irony — I’m more likely to get a ‘hug’ from one of you when I need it than from anyone in my offline life… (oh, except for my kids).]
I’ve written so many posts I’ve never published. Some I never truly intended to post. But others? I had every intention of posting… until I read them again. Concerns and doubts crept in. Second thoughts. Will I offend, bother, bore, or even disappoint someone? I don’t even know, at this very moment as I type these words, whether or not I will publish this post.
I think I’m losing my free pass. I’m no longer saying whatever the fuck I want.
But why?
Sometimes I’m in a really fucking horrible mood… and I bet sometimes you are, too. This is normal. Why do I think I can never speak of it? Maybe if I write about it, you’ll identify with it. Or maybe it’ll be a funny rant and you’ll laugh. And maybe I’ll laugh.
And that’s a win for everyone.
what sandra thinks 