What do YOU have anything to do with this?

What do YOU have anything to do with this? You, on the other side of this screen, of this language, of these words? What do YOU have to do with my writing?

Read along here.

You are the audience. I put this out into the world knowing that anyone can read this. Therefore, I don’t put out certain things. I post stories and then don’t tell anyone because I want strangers to find them, not the people who might see the coincidences that pertain to life outside of this screen. What is it that fiction authors have to put?

“Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.”

Yet, we still do it. We know that there is truth in fiction. The advice tells us to “write what you know” and I thought that meant practically, such as what I do for work. No - it means “know your emotions and write about it.”

“The minute you don’t want to write a thing, then you have to write it because that’s where the good stuff is.” - Sascha Rothchild quoting her own father on Dani Shapiro’s podcast “Family Secrets,” episode “The Journal,” about feeling the need to write about her father’s affairs.

I want to write about my divorce. I want to write about how the day I received the email with the date it was going to be finalized, I ran with all of my tiny might, pushing my legs to reach their full potential, feeling the stretch of my tendons as I ran to the corner of my block and back, trying to get out all of my excited energy before bed. I want to write about how the next morning I could not help but bounce as my friend prepared a fun new drink for me, that I did not care what she made me because I was so fucking elated. I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “elated” to describe myself before. I want to write about my joy in this devastating event.

And yet, anyone can read this. You, on the other side of this screen, might know my ex. You might even be friends with them. You might even be my ex.

This is where I struggle. I struggle with hurting the feelings of someone I had once vowed to love in sickness and in health. And yet: I don’t have to hide myself anymore. I don’t have to be considerate anymore. I don’t have to fold myself up and stuff myself in a corner anymore. I can say out loud what I went through felt. I don’t have to be taken advantage of anymore.

This is where my ex (potentially you) can write whatever the fuck they want about me. They can publicly list out all the times that I humiliated them, hurt them, made them feel less than. And yet: I’m the one who pulled the plug. I am the one who packed my necessities and left. I am the one who is being petty in writing all of this right now.

So what do YOU have anything to do with this? Why the fuck would I put this out publicly, to you, an audience? I could say it’s for the selfless reason that I want someone to identify with me, to see their experience in mine and add it to one of the reasons they chose to leave and have a better life for themself. Admittedly, that is part of it. What is more likely is that it’s for completely selfish reasons (and selfish does not mean bad): that I want to be heard. I want the potential of being listened to. I want to make up for the thousands of words I kept secret in journals to prevent myself from making my ex look bad. I want you, an audience, to read this on your tiny phone screen at night and think of me. I want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to pity me. I want to be considered as a topic of conversation. I want compassion and empathy. I want to be whispered about. I want this cry for attention to actually get some. I want. I want. I want!

I want my friends to know what I hid from them because I did not want to make my ex look bad. I no longer want to worry about making my ex look bad. I no longer want to silence myself, and speaking out loud will most likely make my ex look bad. So again, why the fuck would I even let you read this?

I have written eight hundred words so far to try and answer this question. I don’t even think I’ve answered it yet because I am stuck in the middle of the hurricane and can’t see the answer before me. Maybe I am afraid of the answer before me. Maybe the answer is that I do, indeed, want to be petty. Maybe the answer is that in the end, I AM and WANT to be a mean person, which I don’t usually like to be. Maybe the answer is that I am indeed the bitch my ex thinks I am. Maybe I am scared to accept that they are right about me. Maybe I am afraid that I do indeed HOPE they ARE right about me.

I didn’t deserve to stay in a situation that was consuming me, that made me feel like too much and not enough at the same time. I still don’t. They also did not deserve to be in a relationship with someone who was desperately. trying. to be happy with them. They deserve, as a human being, to be with someone who does not have to try to love them.

You possess critical thinking - you can think whatever the fuck you want about me. I, too, can celebrate whatever the fuck I want. I can cry about whatever the fuck I want. I am probably making a huge fucking mistake putting this out on the internet, where nothing is truly ever gone again. And yet: it’s my own fucking mistake to make, and I will relish in it.

You are here to judge me even as you only know this about me, and I hope that you do. At least then I will be seen.

This piece was inspired by David Achu’s video which asks us to consider what we put out into the world, and to be prepared to live with the consequences of our public choices.