Many people are amazed by the topics I feel comfortable writing about. “Aren’t you embarrassed to have other people know about your sex life?” they ask.
My answer: maybe just a little, but not very much. For the most part, I find it incredibly freeing.
I spent much of my younger years disguising my true self. As a result, I was painfully shy. After all, how do you find something to say about yourself if you don’t want people to know who you really are? I was so afraid of rejection that I gave people no part of me to reject. As a result, my so-called friends barely knew me. Case in point: when I was in college, people occasionally made anti-Semitic remarks and jokes right in front of me. They didn’t know I was half Jewish because I’d never told them.
I can think of so many situations when I pretended to be someone other than the person I really am. I sat through a dinner, one night, as a conservative guest went on and on about what she considered the evils of the Democratic Party. I said nothing. I didn’t bother to mention that I’d voted for every Democrat on every ticket during every election since my 18th birthday. She assumed I agreed with her every word.
The thing is, hiding my true self has never resulted in happiness. If anything, it made me sad, lonely, and unconnected with the world.
It was during my mid to late 20s that I began experimenting with allowing the world to get to know the real me.My initial forays into total and utter transparency, however, didn’t necessarily go well. For instance, while on a first date with a guy I really, really liked, I blurted out, “I’ve been in therapy for the past year. My therapist wants me to take antidepressants, but I don’t want to. I can get better without them.” Um, he didn’t want to see me again.
His loss.
Even on the night more than 10 years ago when I met the man who would later become my husband, I probably revealed too much. Over the course of two hours and two beers, I told him my entire dating history. The following week he called me and asked me on a date.
His gain.
In the years since, I’ve waxed and waned in my ability to let others in. I waned in a big way after our daughter was born. As a card-carrying member of the Perfectionist’s Society, I didn’t want anyone to know about my struggles as a mother, wife or writer. In my mind, struggling equaled failure and, if I were a failure, no one would love me.
It has been more recently, however, that I learned that the opposite is actually true. The more I talked to others about my so-called failings, the more I realized that I wasn’t alone. I met other mothers, like me, who paid bills late, for instance, because they were too sleep deprived to remember where they’d put the bills in the first place. I met mothers who spent their days filled with anxiety, worrying about whether their children would fall off the jungle gym, run out in front of a car, or get lost in the grocery store. We all worried. We all dropped balls. We were all less than perfect, yet we were less than perfect together. That realization was much more soothing than the process of pretending to be perfect on the outside, but struggling with imperfection on the inside.
The more I’ve opened up, the more authentic and interesting my relationships have become. It wasn’t until I allowed my friends to get to know the inner me that I knew who my true friends really were. When I wore my soul on my sleeve, I knew without a doubt that these women loved every quirky part of me. When I’d kept my soul hidden, however, I’d had no idea whether they liked the Alisa they saw on the outside or the Alisa they barely knew on the inside.
The more I opened up, the more I knew my husband adored me, too. It’s the same in my business relationships and with my siblings and parents.
It leads me to wonder: why is it acceptable to talk about the weather, the stock market, must-see TV, and the latest in technology, but it’s not okay to talk about what is really going on in our lives on a day to day basis? Don’t all couples argue? Isn’t it normal for married couples to have sex? Don’t all of us struggle with parts of ourselves that we wished weren’t there, but, dang it, are hard to exorcize? For instance, I’m not proud of the fact that I occasionally lose my temper, but will not talking about it make my temper go away?
No, if anything, it might make it worse.
Because I write about these aspects of my life, our young daughter will one day realize:
• Her parents have sex. Shocker! I, for one, am proud to dispel the rampant belief that the only sex worth having is during singlehood or adultery.
• Marriage requires patience, hard work, sacrifice, communication, compromise, and lots of self-control (i.e. to prevent yourself from killing your partner). Would it be better to propagate the myth that a wedding band and a baby are the answers to all problems? I don’t believe so.
• Her parents are less than perfect, and so is everyone else in this world.
I am proud that I have the ability, though my writing, to teach her those lessons. I’m also proud of myself for having the courage to put it out there. I can’t say I have a single regret about a single detail I’ve ever revealed either verbally or in this blog. I don’t even regret that time so many years ago when I was on that first date and I told that guy about my mood issues. Thank God we only had one date! What if I’d successfully hidden the real me date after date after date? He might have married me and, eventually, I’m quite sure we both would have regretted it.
So, dear reader, I encourage you to try it. During one conversation this week, tell someone something you’ve never told anyone before. Talk about your secret yearning to bear Jon Stewart’s children (okay, that’s my identity bleeding into yours). Mention the chocolate fest you had the other day, after you learned you were being passed over for a promotion. Talk about your insecurities. Reveal. I’m quite certain that you’ll feel a weight lift off your chest when you realize that the person you’ve kept hidden deep inside is absolutely loveable, precious, and good.
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Jon Stuart’s children? really?
and you’re right. . . I never really felt I knew you until that dinner in NY. . and now I am so glad I do!!