Insert pic of me with Pinocchio nose?
I remember the time I was cornered by crazed alligators. I cheated death by parachuting off a cliff onto a passing kayak on the mighty Ichetucknee River.
Grabbing one of the alligators as I sailed off the cliff, I had him stuffed. He sits in my office as a daily reminder how short life is.
Okay.
That might be a slight embellishment of the truth.
Linking up with All Things Fadra and a 5 minute unedited stream of consciousness, stream of thought.
GO:
Brian Williams. Good grief. You can’t turn on the news without that being the news.
But it’s got me thinking. Why do we all feel the need to embellish our reality?
I do on this blog well, because it’s makes it more entertaining to read and honestly, more much more fun for me to write.
But when do we cross the line? When does “in search of a good story” become over reaching?
Most of us agree, that sitting around at a dinner party after a glass or two of wine – our life stories become a little more exciting. A little more dramatic. What was truth is now a little bit of truth and a lot of plastic surgery.
For example, eons ago when I was in Texas — in a bar, a DJ from a radio station approached me and said they were doing a contest for Dallas Forth Sexist Women (this was the early 80s, they would have said hottest today.)
TIME
Pooh. In all honesty, that darn timer went off.
The point of that story was this radio guy asked if I wanted to join them and be in the contest. I laughed and went on to the bathroom.
I must have told my mom.
For every once again in a blue moon, if I was feeling unattractive she would say, “Well, you were picked as one of the Dallas Forth Worth prettiest women.”
Of course I wasn’t. But that doesn’t make me correct her — even when she might be saying it in front of a group of people.
Now if she said this a lot, I would correct her. I think.
Hopefully you get my point. Sometimes how events have been twisted over time make us feel better about ourselves.
Or in the retelling we feel that our story as perceived by others not sad enough, scary enough, tragic enough.
I’ve written about the pain of infertility. A pain that was very, very real for me. But what if I felt my inability to get pregnant with interfility treatments, and the humiliation I felt with those treatments and then becoming pregnant without treatment and subsequent miscarriage — not enough.
It was very tragic to me. But is it tragic enough to cut through all the other tragedy out there?
Should I insert five more miscarriages to make me seem really tragic?
Of course not. That would be pathetic and a mockery of all those who struggle daily with the inability to have a child.
I lived that pain. I don’t need to rework my life to make my heartbreak more entertaining for others.
That’s the tipping point for me.
When I reach the point that I feel a need to change a story to make me appear more courageous, more compassionate, more sympathetic than the me that sits here.
When my reality is not enough.
So why is it so difficult these days? Why is the truth – our truth or any truth not enough?
Thoughts? What crosses the line for you?
Wow – from stuffed alligators to something very thought provoking. In one post recently I wrote about potty training Christopher and wrote about the last time he hid behind furniture to poop in his diaper. In this particular post I wrote that this particular time he hid behind the sofa. He actually hid behind the daybed in the computer room at my parents house but as I read the post over, pooping behind the sofa made for better reading. LOL! I’m laughing now. I know that’s not quite what you meant though. I think I haven’t written as much about my experience of miscarriage and trying to get pregnant because it while it was major to me, someone might say, “Oh that was nothing.” Jamie I wrote a whole book with someone and had really intended on trying to publish it. This was well before The Christopher Chronicles. So it continues to collect dust in it first draft of edits that I never fixed because I didn’t think it was good enough.
Oh Kenya. There must be something to opening ourselves up — examining ourselves — that makes us think that we aren’t enough. But I think the reality must be the opposite. We all are trying to cover up the same thing. Deep insecurities. Xoxo
I love this post! I don’t understand why we all desire to be more than we are – we are enough and we have to remember that!
This was excellent food for thought. My husband and I talk about how many people don’t really listen to you but instead think of what they are going to say next. We all want a better more interesting story. Part of what I love about blogging is that our stories are just every day stories. We’re not writing blockbuster novels. We’re sharing our lives.
Wow. This post makes me want to go push “publish” on all those drafts that are sitting because I’m not sure anyone would care to read my truths. One day, I hope to be brave enough (or reckless enough) to just do it.
I agree. If we feel enough to write it, why do we censor others ability to read and interact with our expression of that emotion.
As bloggers, we write so much that we don’t publish in our spaces. Sometimes I feel I should take a lesson from TheJackB and write exactly how/what I’m feeling, whatever I want to talk about without regard to who will be reading it. Sometimes I think that would be a better approach for me because I take so much out of my posts. Maybe I’m afraid of oversharing or “who cares?”. But it is our space to do with what we want. If I wrote what I want in a “free to be me” way, I think I would feel better. Somebody may read my words, or not. Like what I’m saying, or not. At least I would be writing and speaking my mind. I am far too guarded!
The friends I was with this weekend, my husband and I talked at length about the whole Brian Williams thing. The word of the weekend became “conflated”. I smiled at your plastic surgery comment and I love that you were one of the prettiest girl in Texas ;-). I certainly believe it!
This was so very thought provoking and timely for me.
Now with my children older and aware when people say “I read this about you . . .” that it means my blog, I’ve pretty much stopped sharing about them unless it’s the most antiseptic of posts. And I get that. I dread the day when my teenager has her own blog. whoa. All I can say is just remember every story has two sides. When it is a post just about me — my feelings and reactions, I’ve gotten more close to the vest. I really want to channel more of those personal feelings into fiction. I’ve started something again and wish I could be more disciplined about adding to that story.