unknown

[Some thoughts I've wanted to get off my chest for a long time, and now I've finally found a way.]

When my friend Janie came back from seeing the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam, she told me that the exhibit basically ended with Anne's father saying that he thought he and Anne were close, but that after reading her diary after her death turns out she had emotions much more deep and complex than he realized. He concluded that no father really knows their daughter.

Two things hit me after hearing that. First of all, what a depressing thought. Perhaps my apprehensions about being a mother stem primarily from this fear of not being able to actually know my own children (or them not knowing me?). And secondly, and more importantly, perhaps this idea is what prevents me from writing. I'm not scared of the world reading about my most personal and complex thoughts--I'm scared to let my father read them. My father, mother, sister, friends, professors, pastors, blah blah blah--all those people who think they know who I am. I'm scared of writing and revealing exactly what I think and the extent of who I am. I hate the thought of someone reading a blog or anything I write and being ashamed or embarrassed at the revelation of my thoughts because they realize they don't know me.

It's not that I live my life outwardly as a different person. It's just that all the complexities and insecurities and conflicts within could never be simultaneously and accurately portrayed to those around us. We see others as having fairly limited personalities, and know others also expect certain characteristics from us. This simplification process is comforting. It allows us to feel like we 'really know' someone else. But actually, we all have characteristics we promote simply because we know that's the personality others expect from us, even if we admit we're technically capable of just about any personality or emotion. It's just too unsettling to look at everyone around you, including yourself, in that light.

But whenever I read books anymore I can't help wondering "What does their mother think when she reads this?" or, if I know the author has children, "What do their kids think?" If I read the writings of my mother, would I squirm awkwardly to delve so deeply into the complexity of her psyche, her pain, her hopes. Would I feel closer to her, or perhaps further, knowing that the mother I "knew" and loved was only the tip of the iceberg of her self, and that her range of thoughts and insecurities was just as wide as mine? Isn't it easier, more comforting, to instead allow ourselves to believe that we know our parents, we know our friends, than to be confronted with the disturbing reality that we really can't know anybody? Not truly?

And now, back to my point earlier, perhaps this is what discourages me from writing... and why most of my blogs don't get posted without major cuts and edits, if I post them at all. It's not that I have nothing to say, I have plenty. It's not that nobody would read it, I'm sure there are some friends or family or whoever who would. It's more that I don't want anyone to feel betrayed. If I wrote a novel someday, and poured my heart into it, would my father read it and think sadly, "I don't know my own daughter?"


[Okay, now back to writing my papers.]