Monday, March 18, 2013


I remember a time when I felt that my thoughts were so private. I fiercely guarded my secrets. Some I still do. But lately, hardly a day goes by when I don’t berate myself for over-sharing. When did that start happening?

I’m really hard on myself. Ask my husband. Ask my mom. Really, I should cut myself some slack, lay off a bit. I know the things that I’ve raked myself over the coals about my entire life. Over-sharing was never a problem. Until recently.

I blame Facebook.

No, really, I do. I am one of those people who checks in a few times a day and actually enjoys other people’s mundane reports on what they’re doing. However, often I find that there are plenty of people who seem to be having the most glorious day of their lives and know just how to turn a phrase when briefly describing their latest undertaking, even if all they’re doing is hanging out with family or running an errand. Adventure seems to pursue them on every wind.

And, yes, I do it, too. I think my life is beautiful and funny and crazy and, well, LIFE. And it’s fun to report the little amusing anecdotes and oddities and even the little things that are so blandly normal that just make me feel human. It’s even nice to be able to put a “have you ever” moment out there and receive a half a dozen responses indicating that you’re not the only one to have gone through something so hard or tragic or just weird.

Yet still, somewhere in there, I began to notice myself over-sharing. And not just on Facebook; it bled into my everyday life – standing at the coffee maker at work just waiting for that last drip so I can grab a mugful and hurry back to my to-do list and I babble to a passing acquaintance a little too much about my recent struggle with… whatever. Sometimes I feel like I’m talking in status updates.

But, Facebook isn’t the only problem.

I have a theory that some of this over-sharing also started when I stopped writing… and I mean really writing. I used to write all the time – journals, blogs, plays, short stories, attempts at a book or two, and so on. A few years ago, I stopped writing in my journal, something I had previously done since the age of 12. I also stopped writing here. I’m naturally a communicative person. I love to talk. Once again, just ask my husband or my mom. However, for most of my life, a lot of my communication came out in the form of writing. And I just stopped. All those excess thoughts, feelings, opinions, dreams, ideas, stories, ponderings, and just words had to come out somewhere. If you were the “somewhere” it got spilled (and sometimes spewed), I’m sorry.

My solution: I must write. And so, write I will. Here. There. And everywhere.

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