Spilled Milk.

Dear Diary, 

I struggled for a while with what I wanted to write about for my first post on this blog. I knew from the start what I wanted this blog to be: an unfiltered look into my life, a memoir in excerpts, but I didn’t know where to begin. Besides, the idea is much easier said than done. 

It’s no secret to anyone that presenting a candid version of yourself, especially online, is difficult. We’ve all heard the spiels about how social media allows–encourages, even– people to curate an idealized portrait of their lives, but we have a hard time digesting this as truth. At least, I do. 

But I didn’t create this blog to convince anyone my life is perfect. I created this blog because I’ve experienced a lot, and because writing has been my preferred method of processing shit for almost my entire life. Because my life, as messy as it often is, is also full of beautiful moments I want to record authentically. Because I’ve always liked to tell stories, and now I want to tell my own. 

The subject of this post was inspired both by my own hesitance to present myself honestly and (as so many of the things I write are) by my friends. 

Last month, I attended an annual “Friendsgiving” hosted by Sara; a sweet night of delicious food, Soju shots, and collaging. As we crowded around her living room and dining room and the affectionately named “piece-of-shit” room stuffed with mismatched sofas and cushions and an often-forgotten foosball table, I found myself repeatedly impressed by the honesty and vulnerability displayed by the people around me. 

My friends aren’t afraid to laugh loudly or yell in excitement, to accidentally have a drink too many or fall asleep on the couch while we all go on chattering next to them. What was most admirable to me, though, were the conversations; the one I was part of and the ones I only overheard. I noticed how openly they talked about both their triumphs and defeats; tiresome jobs and creative projects, new medications and unpaid debts, relationships starting and ending. 

Maybe it was the drink too many I had myself, but I knew then what I wanted to write about first: honesty and vulnerability. I struggled with both a lot growing up. I got the idea in my head pretty early on that I wasn’t impressive. In fact, I was quite the opposite; an object of pity. I was dirt poor, my mother was young, single, and in the throes of addiction, my father was nowhere to be found. I also just kind of had a pale, wide-eyed, Tiny-Tim-looking thing going on, and so I frequently found myself on the other end of sympathetic glances and hand-me-down sneakers and winter coats. My troubles were unfamiliar and vaguely sad to my peers. I was like a stray dog; something to be pitied, but from a safe distance, and ultimately forgotten about. 

I don’t want to call myself a liar. I was a storyteller, sure, and I was far more concerned with what others thought than with the truth, but my fabrications were never malicious. I told stories of vacations I never went on, trips to the movies that didn’t exist. I really just wanted to be like everyone else and to do the things my peers were doing, and felt so ashamed anytime I was caught. (One particularly mortifying memory is being forced to stand in front of my second-grade class and admit I had lied when I claimed to have seen a movie I didn’t realize hadn’t come out in theaters yet.) 

But I hated being pitied most of all. Because of this, my habit of dishonesty lingered into early adulthood, though by this time it had developed into telling half-truths to hide whatever I was embarrassed about instead of fabricating stories. And yet, I’d somehow convinced myself I’d changed and even thought of myself as an open book. And I was, I guess, about some things. I was reasonable enough and lacked enough self-hatred at that point to know the things that had embarrassed me so much as a child weren’t my fault, so I discussed them freely. Humorously, even. 

Truthfully, I was still full of shame. I was stuck feeling endlessly less than and so determined to prove I wasn’t, so desperate to hide the parts of myself I felt others wouldn’t like– or worse, might pity. I dodged cautious questions about abusive boyfriends and financial struggles and deteriorating mental health, and when my friends grew suspicious, I told stories with missing pieces that wouldn’t fill themselves in for months afterwards.  

I spent many difficult nights alone, wallowing in self-pity when I could’ve picked up the phone and called someone. My writing suffered, too; I missed a lot of opportunities to create pieces that were truly meaningful out of fear of exposing the whole story, of exposing myself. Though I wrote about some experiences later on, I truly believe they would have been much stronger had I written them when the feelings were fresh. 

I don’t know that there was any one moment that changed or “snapped me out of it” so to speak. I think (or hope?) we all reach a point where the need for genuine connection, expression, and understanding overrides our shame, where we just grit our teeth and spit out the truth. I’m very fortunate to have friends that inspire me to be vulnerable, but it’s up to me to continue to offer myself to the world unguarded the same way I watch them do. Before I end this post, and in the spirit of vulnerability, here is a brief but honest recap of my life recently: 

• I made a dentist appointment that was long overdue. Like, long overdue. Like, so long overdue that I couldn’t confidently tell the receptionist the last time I had been to a dentist. 
• The dentist yelled at me for attempting to treat my own tooth infection with old antibiotics I found at home instead of making an appointment right away. (Fun fact: Cephalexin doesn’t adequately treat tooth infections!) In my defense, I only waited a few days. And I’m afraid of the dentist. 
• I bought a car. (Yay!)
• This post sat half-written in my journal for much longer than I told myself it would. 
• This post sat fully-written but un-posted for over a week longer than I said it would. 
• My poem “summer softens into autumn like overripe fruit” was featured in the second issue of Ivy Literary Journal. (Check them out on Instagram!) 

with love, korah