Lie No. 4 | 09.09.18

This post marks a month (!!) of this gorgeously gauche experiment of mine. I had no expectations going in—a first for me. Well, I guess I expected people to think I’d lost my mind. Entirely possible the vast majority of you do think that, in which case I’m forever indebted to you for keeping it to your damn self. For me, it’s been magic. I’ve been offered investment to write a book, invited to do an incredible qual research study on therapy, reconnected with dozens of people I’d lost touch with IRL who wanted to share their stories, feel jolted w/creativity + my personal favorite, been sent photos of your journal entries...about me. While all of that’s left me absolutely amazed, this isn’t about you or any of that stuff. It’s about me. That alone is cathartic af.
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I’ve always numbed or pretended pain didn’t exist which is why this is extra uncomfortable for me. It wasn’t until this year I realized when you numb the bad, you also numb the good. WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME?! God, I hope my therapist isn’t on IG.
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Let’s back up. I was fortunate to never know actual pain for the first two-thirds of my life. But even then, I turned pain away at the gate so I wasn’t prepared when shit got real later in life. For all intents + purposes, I grew up in a ballpark. As a kid I got hit twice by the same foul ball at a Braves game. That’s right. Twice. I never wanted to look like one of those idiots ducking every time that familiar crack of the bat hitting the ball ricocheted up the first-base line. So, to protect my ego, I didn’t move a muscle to protect myself that day. It’s like saying you’re willing to take a bullet for yourself. How nobly naïve! The ball hit my forearm, draped on the seat’s armrest, then bounced off my bicep. I denied the hit as well as the actual foul ball + the swag they give human foul poles. Even as I walked out of the ballpark w/two big welts on my bony arm, I denied it. Oh, those? They’ve been there. Stop asking about them.
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Humility + hostility share a border for me. My instinct is to race across to the false comfort of the latter any time I find myself in the former. It’s exhausting.