Creating The Webbd Wheel: Real

In which we open our eyes ...

Last week I read this post from Lani Diane Rich and wept with gratitude.

I was raised in a family system of secrets and lies, distortions, passive-aggressive behavior, gaslighting, projection, and slavish conformity to ridiculous standards based on what the neighbors would think. Any authentic expression of hunger, grief, anger, or sexuality was brutally slapped down. Any direct question or comment is still either coldly ignored or received as a hateful threat.

Strong feelings were simply not allowed, at least not for females. Toxic positivity, sitting with my knees together, and sustaining the façade created by the generations before me was required. Choices were shut down; what was demanded was adherence to the plan laid out for me, a plan reflecting well on my elders and upbringing.

This painful legacy produced a young woman completely disconnected from herself, her own needs, her own wants and desires. I was fearful, insecure, and had no confidence or sense of my own inherent value. Because I am not a conformist, I’ve always understood what a disappointment I am, how inadequate, and how far away from the daughter and granddaughter my family could have welcomed and been proud of.

Image by Nika Akin from Pixabay

For most of my adult life I’ve struggled to find, connect to, defend, and love who I truly am. As an adult, I’ve noticed living behind a pseudo self is the norm rather than the exception; my family is certainly not the only one who has lived in a dollhouse. In the last few years political and communication variables like social media have created a great wave of reinforced cultural falsity. Technological advances mean we can no longer trust media images or that we’re interacting with real people. Corruption and authoritarianism mean we can no longer trust words or objective reality. Political correctness shackles direct, honest conversation and debate; even science is no longer accepted as fact.

Both my past and current social context create in me a reverence for the simple truth. Not the pretty, socially acceptable, act-like-a-lady, we-don’t-talk-about-things-like-that-in-this-house truth, but blood truth, bone truth, wet spot truth, Baba Yaga truth. That’s what Lani Diane gave me with her post – the truth. Real feelings. Real internal conversations. Real fears. Real words. The struggle to tell the plain truth without edit, without varnish; facing the fear of what others will think or offending and losing readers, is for me the hardest part of writing. In six years I’ve written one post in my blog as raw as Lani Diane’s post. But during all those years I’ve also been writing fiction, and that’s the place where all my truths come out.

I’ve been repeatedly told in my life I’m “too intense.” I’ve always wondered if that’s code for “too truthful.” In my blog I’m careful. I tell the truth, but not all of it and for the most part in a nonconfrontational way. The fiction, though, gives me freedom and permission to slip the chains of “nice” and “ladylike” (what does that even mean?). In fiction I write in blood and vomit and tears and I do it without shame or apology.

Life is real. Grief and rage and sex and death are real. The knots we get ourselves tied into, our stinking wounds, our demons and monsters and shadows are real. Everyone has them. Everyone feels. Most of us never reveal them.

For me, the willingness to roll up our sleeves and be messy and dirty and honest is the greatest courage and the greatest strength there is. It’s leadership. It’s hope for humanity. It’s hope for creativity. It’s the purest kind of love for ourselves and our experience, for others, and for this journey we call life. I’m writing for people like Lani Diane Rich, for people who dare, for people who risk, for real people who have the grace and humor to share themselves fully with the world.

(This essay was published with post #49 of The Hanged Man.)