What I’d write about
If I didn't care
Sometimes I wish I didn’t care about how I’d be perceived.
Then I’d truly be free.
—
It’s not really about being understood, though that’s nice, of course.
I’m very (let’s be real, overly) conscious of how I’m perceived, because I don’t want to be misunderstood. If that makes any sense.
I don’t want you to think that I am something that I am not.
I don’t want you to expect me to be something that I might not be able—or want—to be.
I suppose it comes down to wanting to avoid—or at least reduce—disappointments. Both being disappointed and being a disappointment. Some classic stuff for second-gen immigrants.
Unfortunately, despite my persistent efforts (aka stubbornness) to avoid disappointments, those efforts have been mostly futile.
Turns out disappointments are inevitable. And I had to—have to still, every day—learn to accept that.
—
Before moving on, I feel that I must go back and double-click into what the difference is between not being understood vs. being misunderstood. In my head, at least.
Not being understood is like, someone walking up to me, and saying, “I have no idea what it’s like to be you. But here is what it’s like to be me. Does any of that resonate with you in any way? No? Ah okay, oh well.”
And being misunderstood is like, someone walking up to me, smacking me on the shoulder or back in that overly familiar way, as if we’ve been childhood best bros all our lives, and saying, “I totally get you! Family [or men, or teenagers, or any other generalized label], am I right? You can’t live with them, you can’t live without them! Haha!”
In the former situation, I’d feel a bit lonely. But lonely is an acceptable, and sometimes even welcome, feeling.
But in the latter situation, every atom of my body screams, “Fuck off, you don’t get me at all.”
I only get triggered by misunderstandings, not a lack of understanding.
—
In no particular order, here are the things I’d write about, If I didn’t care about being perceived and misunderstood.
These are the things I’m running from when I train for my half marathon. The things occupying my mind when I procrastinate on filing my taxes, night after night. The things that keep me awake on a week night even though I need to be up at 7am.
If I didn’t care, I’d write about certain disappointments. And how even though I logically know that letting go is good for me, I can’t seem to. I chew on them like bland, grainy, overworked gum, after all the softeners and flavourings have dissolved, clinging on to the aftertaste from certain yesterdays.
If I didn’t care, I’d write about trauma still being processed. Both capital “T” and little “t”. Grief still being processed—also, capital “G” and little “g”. No, not in the past tense, not as some seemingly perfect post-mortem analysis. But still unfolding, with uncertainties of where it could lead.
If I didn’t care, I’d write about rage. I feel gaslit when people pretend like everything is awesome, when so fucking much is so fucked. My rage is tempered by the weight of shame, for I lack the gut to convert rage to courage, to action. But maybe even writing about it is a form of action. And maybe the more I write about it (or sing about it, or laugh about it, or draw about it, or create games about it…), the more likely I can find the courage to disentangle and move through the rage. Rage is just hurt. Hurt needs a place to go.
If I didn’t care, I’d write about the little details that I pretend not to notice every day. Most times I simply don’t have it in me to deal with it in the moment, so I put it off for as long as I possibly can. I know it’s neither healthy nor sustainable, but man, sometimes I just need a break from having to deal with yet another thing. Give me a fucking break. Fuck.
Sorry, I already said rage, right?
If I didn’t care, I’d write dirty poetry. From sweets to sins.
If I didn’t care, I’d write about my frequent contemplation of loneliness and death. Some of it is actually very, very warm and fuzzy. No, really.
If I didn’t care, I’d write about hope. I’m a huge bummer of a pessimist (see above), but my hope is greater and unending. I mean, what choice is there? It’s hope, or nothing.
—
If I didn’t care, I could be unapologetically honest, equally so in private and public.
But who am I kidding? I care.
A lot.
All the time.
Caring is like, my whole thing!
So maybe I can care, and still find—or rather, create—the courage to write about these things.
Maybe it’s time I run towards them.
So where do I begin?
P.S. This week I moved this Substack to my own domain (thoughts.marywithalilamb.com), and that gave me a little dose of joy.
P.P.S. I just finished my taxes. Give me a fucking break.