See-Through

The one about telling the internet your deepest secrets.

Sep 11, 2022

Yesterday, I had a meeting with a person I’d never met before. We were complete strangers to one another, but he made it clear to me that in advance of our conversation, he’d looked me up. More specifically, he’d read my freelance work, which, if you’ve read any of my pieces, you know are usually pretty personal. I tend to be an open book in my essays, or at least to the internet. In reality, that’s never quite been the case.

I have had a chronic illness since I was born, and if you’ve read some of my freelance essays (or know me well IRL), then you probably already know this. Despite writing about it every now and then, I try not to talk about it very much in person with people, and I’ve really always been that way. When I was little, I was obsessively secretive about that part of my life. I was never ashamed about being different and never felt like there was something “wrong” with me (thank you to my parents for that), but I was endlessly afraid that other people would judge me by it. That it would come to dominate my identity if I let anyone know, in a way that I didn’t feel was warranted.

I told no one other than my teachers about my medical appointment schedule, which would cause me to miss class (which, if you’re new here, is for regular blood transfusions). I would always make sure I’d made up all my schoolwork from the time I missed by the very next day, so that none of my classmates would notice I’d been gone. I made my mom drive me around trying to find waterproof concealer for the one eighth grade pool party I attended, to try and erase the bruises on my body from my daily medicine, which back then was a nightly shot in the stomach or thigh (thank you, science, for eventually creating a pill replacement); I didn’t want to have to explain where the bruises had come from. I still remember a girl in high school asking me during a class if I did drugs because I had marks on my arm (track marks, she called them); I was mortified but still didn’t want to get into explaining.

It was years (YEARS) before my very best friends even really understood that part of my life, and even longer before I opened up enough to write about it for the whole free world. I mean, I was already in my 30s at that point.

And so yesterday, when this man I didn’t know from Adam told me he’d read my essays, I suddenly felt naked. And… almost regretful, honestly. (Almost.) Like why did I put all that out on the internet? Shouldn’t I have expected people would read it, even ones who didn’t know me personally, and potentially then want to talk to me directly about it? For a split second, I thought that maybe I should stop. Quit being so generous with my struggles and demons, sharing them with the world. I wanted to avoid future moments of awkwardness with strangers, and getting off guard by questions about the parts of me that I don’t usually shine a light on in everyday conversations (like living with a chronic illness).

I imagine other writers would say this as well, but for me, writing things out is always much, much easier to do than speaking. I’m not anxious when I’m writing. I’m not embarrassed or worried or wondering what someone else will say or think about me. I write because it’s cathartic to share my experiences, even the ones in the shadows, and ultimately because I’m always hopeful someone out there will find my words and feel less alone. That’s partly why I have this story-letter. I just need to get better at not reacting when it feels like someone thinks they see right through me just because they found 1,000 words under my byline.

Having a chronic illness, especially an invisible one, is personal and difficult and exhausting and lonely and irrevocably perspective-shifting. Everyone’s experience is their own, much like everything else in life. Personally, mine has brought a lot of beauty and wonderful people into my life, even despite the challenges and fears.

But if you’ve ever felt different, felt like the weird one, felt left out… I see you. I know I say it a lot, but I get it. Even as an adult who’s seemingly not embarrassed by much of anything at this point and is definitely a lot more open than, say, 11 year old Joelle, I still sometimes feel uncomfortably different, like I’m wearing a scarlet letter letting everyone know I’m ~*complicated*~ or something (and not in the cute, Avril pop-punk way). Covid has really driven that, as I’ve been forced* to stay pretty careful, even as most everyone around me has seemingly gotten back to normal. In fact, tonight I should be at dinner with friends, but they were going to a restaurant with no outdoor seating, and I still haven’t resumed pre-2020 indoor dining… instead, I’m laying on my couch about to order take-out, writing to you. Pandemic precautions have forced me to acknowledge my differentness more than ever in my life, and part of me wishes I could go back to not having to talk about it, not letting it be the thing that introduces me to folks. I can’t tell you how much I cringe at the thought that there’s likely people out there who pair “sick” and my name in their heads now. Perhaps it’s an opportunity, though — to grow, and lean into further building the inner confidence that I lacked when I was a kid, still learning how to feel my way through the world as someone who didn’t blend in.

Perhaps.

So Many Somethings

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