Hi, I’m Talyaa and I’m rewriting my About Me page.
Hi, I’m Talyaa and I’m rewriting my About Me page because I realized something. My About Me is not about me.
It’s about the Me I wanted you to see.
So, let me start over.
Hi, I’m Talyaa and I am an Image Maintainer. I care what you think about me. I care so much that I don’t even realize what I am doing when I carefully craft what I say in a way that is I want you to think about me. Or glosses over the parts I don’t want you to know. Spin. I’m a spinner.
Here is a story
Today I visited communicatrix, the site of Colleen Wainwright. I don’t remember when I first ran across Colleen. I am guessing it was in 2007. Probably on Twitter. I was a superduper active blogger then, with a blog called New Age Bitch, and like a lot of blogfolk I interacted with tweeps in the Twitterverse.[insert Note Of Irony here: this story is about using my real voice, and here I am talking a time when I completely disguised and hid my identity on a blog I wrote because I was afraid that my clients would read words there like FUCK and ASS and then not want to pay me sums of money to channel messages from an entity made from invisible, discarnate spirits. God, I love irony.]
Back to Colleen. We might never have had actual interweb interaction. But somehow we are also Facebook friends. I have more than 4500 Facebook friends (and you, too, can be one! Friend me! And please also write me a sweet note telling me who you are, otherwise I will probably not friend you back, sorry), so you know that all my 4500+ friends are like best buds, right? Well, no. Most of them, truth be told, I winnow out of my news stream. As do you, probably. Hope I didn’t give anything away, here.
Hence Colleen not being in my radar for a while. And then there was today. Inner Voice told me to click through to her FB Timeline. And then to her site. And then read her bio. And I did.
As I am reading Colleen’s bio, I am thinking to myself, This woman rocks. She talks about herself unapologetically. Authentically. It feels really good.
And then. I wish I did that.
A few minutes ago I was washing dishes, sobbing at the sink.
Hands in soapy water, I realized how angry I am — how devastatedly angry I am that I have wasted 49 fricking years in being not-me. Instead I was a shell of a woman. Like a fucking lame chameleon.
This shell of a woman I carry around on my back weighs at least 27 tons. I can feel it. It’s crushing me. Crushing me into dust.
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud was more painful
than the risk
Option #1. Continue on as you are. It’s safe (?). Familiar. Don’t tell people the ugly parts of you. Don’t tell them your fears or your triumphs. Be a cool cat. So chill. Run everything you say or do through a filter of what you think people want to hear or know. Easy-peasy. And it’s safe (?).
Option #2. Let the blossom unfold. Let it go, the weight. Let the shell, the façade, crumble into a zillion particles of dust. Blow them away with your super blowing-away powers. Emerge, maybe not shining and clean, but…intact. Whole. Alive. And true.
Safe vs. Scary. Heavy vs. Light. Hidden vs. Alive.
My Life As An Apology[disclaimer: I wrote this whole post in my head while I stood there at the kitchen sink, sobbing like a ninny. The post you read now is not that post.]
If I were a dickwad, I could be okay with granting myself one of my secret wishes, which is to live for one day as the kind of person who walk around not caring or being aware of her effect on other people.
I really wish I could let myself be a dickwad. For a day. I think it might feel really good. Free, you know? I secretly suspect those people have way more fun than me.
But noooooo. I have to be one of those Sensitive People. Who feeeeeeels stuff. And who caaaaaares.
You know why I care? It’s not so much about the people. The icky part of all this for me is that I care what you think because I want you to think I am awesome. And I also don’t want to get in trouble.
I suspect that Little Talyaa used to get in quite a lot of trouble. And then she learned not to. And she has said “I’m sorry” ever since.
Fucking inauthentic apologies.
Where do I go from here? Or, how this story ends
Here are some things I want to do:
- Be a singer-songwriter (must learn guitar, check)
- Travel to all the color-filled places of the world
- Visit every place on my Pinterest board
- Give a TED Talk.
- Fly in a glider piloted by my soulmate (metaphor alert)
- A massage a day keeps the woman really happy
- Study with Mongolian shamans
I think many of us live only part of a life.
I am angry because I have lived 49 years as only a small part of me. And I painted myself into a corner. A very small corner. The whole rest of the room is filled with TED Talks and gliders and colorful Indian spices arrayed in a jumble of sightsoundcolor, but I’m here in my corner.
I don’t yet know how this story ends. I may not yet have reached my Anais Nin moment. But it’s coming. Soon.
Stay tuned for a new About Me page.
And while you’re at it, why don’t you write one of your own? And then send it to me. I want to know you — all of you.