In the course of writing this blog I have received many variations of the aforementioned question.

Why do you feel the need to publish your life on the internet?

Why do you keep going over all these things from your past?

Why don’t you just move on with your life?

Why can’t you just keep your secrets like everyone else?

Why can’t things just be clean and easy, wrapped up in a nice package?

Why is this so important?

The list goes on. The questions hurt. Partially because they diminish the importance of my journey and partially because, when they come from people that love me, they prove that those people still do not understand.

I write, and publish, because I have to. I know it sounds melodramatic, but it is true. My life, from a young age, was full of dark and twisty places, lies and fantasies, dreams and nightmares. It got to the point that I could not distinguish fact from fiction. I so believed the stories I told that they became a part of my history. I had no anchor, even my diary reflected the story as I wanted it to be. I collected masks and costumes, dressing myself appropriately for every situation, playing a role. Acting. Hiding. Lying. I wanted people to like me. I was convinced that the real me was un-likable. I reinvented myself in an attempt to please people.

Being an actress is easy. Being real is hard. I am ashamed at the amount of time I spend acting, even now.

I choose to publish the real me on the internet because I need to know that someone sees it. I need to know that, even in weak moments when I put the mask back on, the truth is out there. I need to know that there is truth in me. I need to look my friends in the eye and not feel guilty for lying to them. I need to communicate the truth to people in a way that is safe. And right now, for me, this website is that way. There are times when I imagine meeting someone who has followed this site for a while, but doesn’t know me in real life. The idea that there are strangers who read this, know only the real, and still like me is revolutionary. The idea that there are people who have known me for years, read this, and still like me is absolutely inconceivable in my mind.

And yet, against all my assumptions, it happens. Frequently.

And as it happens, I learn. I learn that most people have some dark and twisty places. I learn that I am way, way too hard on myself. I learn that my assumptions are full of crap and that I still have more to learn.

I write to grow, and to chronicle the growth that has already occurred. I write because acting is exhausting and writing feels like rest. I write because I need to know that someone hears and because much of what I have to say is still too hard to vocalize.

I write to bring things in to the light, to tell the truth of my experience and in so doing, to acknowledge that the events of my life matter. I write because I can no longer stand to keep silent. I publish in a desperate attempt to connect with someone, to know that I am not alone with the thoughts in my head. I publish in faith, trusting that as readers follow my whole story, they will hear the truth of my heart. I publish to be known, as a dare to those who read, as a hedge against any temptation to wear a mask.

I have wasted too much time worrying about what people will think of me. I can not do that here.