by P. Braithwaite
I told him. I told my oldest male friend about my break up with The Besticle. I told him about how we broke up, how I blogged about it, and how
that mother fu my ex called me up to complain about my blogging.
Then I cringed. And waited. On some level I knew my
Homeboy wouldn’t take my side. And…….on some level, when I wrote my break up post, I knew I was probably crossing a line.
My oldest male friend smiled. He’s known me since I was fifteen — well enough and long enough to truly understand that disagreeing with me is like disarming a time bomb. The red wire stops everything, the green one causes destruction. The right words can stop me in my tracks…
Or wait, is it the other way around?
“Honestly,” he started. “Homie has a point.”
THAT….was the absolute wrong wire…
“I’m just saying, when you write about your life,” he tilted away from me. “You’re going to face the fact that men may meet you and know more about you than you want them to know. And your boyfriend’s boys will know things about you too…”
I shrugged him off and then obsessed over his warning.
One of my biggest gifts from attending BlogHer ’13 — beyond branding advice, social media tips, the CVS swag bag and new friends — is unequivocal evidence that bloggers like me, the ones who talk too much, have deep and loving relationships.
Translation: Someone…somewhere…is going love this blogger.
Some man somewhere will be smart enough and wise enough to actually marry me. Perhaps I haven’t met him, but he will somehow understand my compulsive and incessant storytelling. He’ll be acquiescent to my need to tell the truth — my truths, my strange uncomfortable truths — and he will know that’s part of what makes me…me.
Somebody amazing is going love this blogger. And that someone will be a very lucky guy.
I met and experienced so many fearless bloggers. I met women who wrote about things that actually made me blush — their changing bodies, their battle with raising children. I met women who wrote about touching their husband’s balls. I met folks who shared stories of addictions, transitions, poverty and shame…
I, who write about therapy and poop, thought: I wonder what her spouse thinks of all this?
Somebody somewhere is going to love this blogger. But he’s going to need an epic sense of humor.
As I sat captivated by beautiful and vulnerable prose…I was comforted by the universal need for storytellers to tell their truths, and the way those truths land on foreign ears to provide laughter and healing for folks who thought they were alone.
So today, I pray for the people who love the bloggers — the people who love poets, painters, musicians, novelists and journalists too — I pray for the folks who help the bloggers live the stories they eventually write. You are beautiful and brave and stronger than you know.
Thank you for loving writers who write to love themselves.
Thank you for giving us permission.
And so it is.