Think of social media as a scrap book or family photo album. Picture your mother or grandmothers photo album on the coffee table. I don’t know about you, but I have seen those photos a hundred times and I never tire of them. They make me feel good. In every picture, the subjects can be found living, laughing and loving. In every picture I feel positive energy.
I haven’t seen a photo of a divorce decree, a police report from a domestic dispute, a custody order or a child’s failing report card in there. I’m sure the people in the photos experienced some of those things. YET… I have never had any expectation to find that information or evidence of that information in the photo album. I look at that book to see the very best of the people in it; not the worst. So, why do we look at social media any different?
Stop crucifying folks for only showing you the best of their life. That behavior only exposes the worst in you.
I am so happy to be writing today. Describing the last almost three months as difficult would be a major understatement . I have wanted to write— to tell you what my family and I have been facing. I have wanted to write about the truth of walking my child through a traumatic experience. I have wanted to share the intimate details of a helpless mother… the heartache of watching the best parts of you become the darkest part of you.
But this is my safe space… my joy.
This is a blog read by many people and yet it still feels so intimate to me. I didn’t want to tarnish it by discussing an experience I haven’t healed from. I didn’t want to transfer these negative emotions. I’ve been so angry and sad and angry and enraged.
Here’s what I know. I know that in my past I have judged people for being in a way that made me uncomfortable. “Why is she so loud? Why does she always have something to say about everything? Damn.” These people usually irked me. They had not attacked me or been negative toward me in any way. And yet— I was annoyed.
I realized that my annoyance was about me; not them. It was directly related to my insecurities… to my fear. I was uncomfortable because these women were free in a way that I was not. They had either consciously or unconsciously decided that how they showed up in the world was not for the comfort of other folks. In other words— Their behavior was for them; not me.
I thought of all the times I was afraid to be me. How I worked hard to be acceptable and appropriate and good. Acceptable and appropriate and good do not benefit the folks who are being confined to it. I was bombarded with memories of the struggle to return to me. How it took my whole life to get back to a little girl with almost just right shoes so I could free her from the irrational, suffocating expectations of other people.
