My Life is an Open Book

I had a friend in college whose mantra was, "My life is an open book." I loved her willingness to place herself in that vulnerable state, she was generous in so many respects. I fancied myself an open person too, and shared many things of value in my life, like lovers and music and long days and nights exploring the limits of relationships. But I wasn't an open book. I never was, not really, and sometimes my disparate selves collided in violent ways. They still do.

Has the time come to be transparent? Why not? What do I have to lose? Shall I lay out my laundry?

Or have I grown too fond of my old companion, fear? Fear of rejection? Fear of other people? Fear of myself? There is some oppressive comfort there after all, of being held tight, forced inward, learning early the masturbatory techniques of self-sufficiency. Putting on a face, acting a role, becoming a "part", the distinction between the represented and the real becomes fuzzy.

Madonna. Whore. Girl-next-door. I have continually revised my life, becoming the different representations required of me. I am essentialist and filled with hate. I am self-destructive. I am creative. I am angry. I blame. I feel compassion. I love. Too deeply. I fear it. I run away.

Come to me fear, wrap yourself around me, protect me from the uncertainty of life. Anaesthesize me. Play with my mind. That's it, give me my self-fulfilling prophecies, my dire predictions. Evil admirer. Fuck with me in those dark places.

We have to believe in the power of the imagination because it's all we have, and ours is stronger than theirs.
-Lawrence Thornhill, from The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, by Sherman Alexie