It's funny how even my brain uses cover-up. If I tell myself people aren't interested, I won't be forced to dig out the fleshy, raw, sometimes (or often) unsure process that makes up what I call me.
So I try to dazzle with pictures, charm with cleverness, or I just don't blog at all because I'm either afraid of being too fake or too real, and I'm not sure which one scares me most.
Also, I'm a little terrified of what you will think if you know that I wrote this the night before I'm posting,
that I have today's mascara flaking onto my cheeks,
that I am wearing my husband's t-shirt,
that I'm cuddled in a chair in a corner of my beige, non-chic bedroom with an old blue blanket pulled under my arms because I just like it that way,
and that I didn't know whether I should smile for this gritty iPhone picture.
See, it's really true:
Despite all of that, I have this desperate desire to write and to connect by being raw, by being real.
I don't have it down yet. I'm not even close. But I want to try.
Sometimes being real is glorious, celebratory, marvelous. Sometimes it's messy and gross. The only hope I have is that in some moment of every day, we each desire to pull off the film, to be in the raw for just a few moments, and to connect with the hearts of others in a different way.
It takes effort to go there. For me, it can be kind of painful. However, I also find my wings when I let myself feel and think things that require extra depth or extra effort because it just doesn't always come up in everyday life.
I want you to know that I expect you to maybe be sitting there with flaky makeup feeling a little insecure.
I want to tell you that I want you to feel wonderfully complex in these moments, because I want to feel that way too.
And I want to hug you through my words for no real reason except that you need someone to tell you that being raw and weird is something we all long for, and if we're the only two people who understand that longing, it's ok.