You can search throughout the entire universe for someone who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and that person is not to be found anywhere. You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection. —Buddha
I began with the hypothesis that exposing truth is more important than building an image.
More than that: exposing truth (my truth, which is not to be confused with something as trite and easily manipulated as fact) is the only way to breathe life and hope into me; into the dark places created by a lifetime of shame, regret, anxiety, and depression.
I started with a belief that truth is a larger virtue than privacy; that secrets are more dangerous than vulnerability.
I open the festering cesspool that is the inside of (some parts of) me and show it to the world because that is what has helped more than all of the everything else—the therapies and pills and quiet, private, secret cures.
The pressure I put on myself says make yourself acceptable, dammit. Be good quiet OK put-together happy pretty thin tidy acceptable normal. Take your problems somewhere secret, somewhere nobody ever has to witness the unadulterated ugliness. Do not wail and gnash and grieve out in the open where all is exposed! Go to the back room the inner office the restroom the confessional the dark and secret places.
I began with a commitment to the truth, to obliterate that internal pressure to hide.
Sometimes, I get scared. Often, I feel ashamed.
Occasionally, the fear and shame conspire to make me feel lost in my words, unable to make sense of my internal reality.
Frequently, I am unaware that I am the only person who expects me to be perfect.