This I Believe
I believe in words. Ever since I was a young girl, sitting on a bus and feeling lonely, I have had the need to share. I often call myself the Overhsharer. I often email friends deep thoughts and feelings. Going on about global warming and asking distant college friends if they worry about what kind of world their children will live in. I never get a response. Then I asked a couple of them, walking into the Red Sox Stadium, “Why doesn’t anyone reply to my emails?” Hezzie said, “You’re too deep. Keep it light.”
I guess that doesn’t work for me. Keeping it light for me is like light beer to someone who has always drank Guinness. I guess the taste wouldn’t make me feel full. I feel full with words. They fill a vacuum and a void for me. Words were always there for me. No matter what the fight, what the crisis, what the high was. I always had words. I had words when my father would go into a bi-polar terror. I had words when my mother neglected to tell me she was forging my name on my credit card that I didn’t know she opened. I had words when she said she was doing this to help my credit. I had words when my father died and the only way I could escape the gasping pain was through writing.
I believe in words and I believe in sharing. I just can’t keep it light, because light doesn’t do. Heavy are the words in my brain and sometimes they are light like raindrops, but they fall in mass storms. So I do share. And I do write. And thus I overshare.
I believe that the process of sharing is much more important than receiving. I guess I just would like to get a response. I have recently started to My Space and Facebook. Searching random names from the past. From junior high school, college, soccer rosters, random names I would never even think of calling up on the phone. But technology is strange. Like a radio to a lost seaman. Is anyone out there? Yes.
I emailed an acquaintance from college. A nice boy I remember from college. He responded to my Facebook email and asked, “How are you?” and “When did you get married?” I responded to his four line email with several descriptive paragraphs. One might even call it an essay about my father’s death and the character of my husband’s Boston sports passion. I didn’t get a response. I guess I expected a response. But nothing came in the inbox. Only doubt that I overshared.
I believe now that oversharing is me. And the response could very well have been a tear or a smile that I can not see. It is a faceless screen after all.
Writing is a part of my life. I do call myself a writer. And I overshare. I am proud to be the words that people read.
If you enjoyed this essay, please consider making a tax-deductible contribution to This I Believe, Inc.