Things I’ve Been Too Embarrassed to Talk About

Embarrassed? Yes, even me.

I wanted to check in with an update, but not just any update. An honest, awkward, and embarrassing update filled with thoughts I’ve been too afraid to say. Some folks think I don’t get embarrassed or that I “have no shame” just because I’m one of those more vulnerable writers. Well, that’s not exactly true.

In reality, I deal with my embarrassment by rarely looking at my stories after I publish them. I only reread the ones I really love that are also not embarrassing. In fact, I frequently wonder after publishing, “Shit — should I have even said that?” I also second-guess myself as I write. Often. Lately, it happens much more than usual.

Even so, I trudge ahead and tell myself that I never have to look at it again if I don’t want to. And yet, I know there are still some thoughts and fears that I sometimes avoid out of some form of embarrassment.

More recently, I don’t feel too great about my writing at all because it’s often so depressing and so long. Of course, there are reasons for both of those qualities, including the fact that I am really struggling. But knowing I’ve got my reasons doesn’t actually make me any less embarrassed about it.

Another writer friend, one with lots of experience with successfully pitching articles for publications that give out bylines other folks actually respect and consider “real writing” has been encouraging me to start pitching some of those places too.

I don’t do it.

I might never do it.

It’s not that I’m afraid of rejection, though. It’s more that I’m afraid of wasting too much time.

I can’t afford to fail. I can’t keep spinning my wheels. I can’t, I can’t, I really can’t keep up anymore.

This month, my ability to build out and add value to my whole Ko-fi endeavor sort of fizzled out. Meaning, it’s probably going to be one of those months where I sort of just... hang on for dear life. As opposed to making great progress.

What happened?

Honestly, it’s a lot of things. As some of you know, I’ve been struggling for practically all of 2021 to get my work seen. My numbers (well, my views) have taken a real dive, and that hasn’t just been discouraging, but also very stressful too.

For more than three years, I’ve been working so hard (so hard) to build a career as a writer and like most successes, it’s never been a linear path of pure growth. There have been challenges and since January of this year, those challenges have been more extreme. Downhill. Perhaps more like a wide valley. Or, I dunno. Maybe I’m standing at the edge of a cliff.

It’s something much more challenging than any of the previous challenges I’ve faced. That’s all I know. And that I’m scared.

As a result, it’s made certain… improvements in my life move a lot more slowly. Even stop, pause, or hang in limbo. I’m sort of embarrassed to say I’ve had to start putting off my dental work again. Hello, nagging toothache. And while I’m not very happy with my current ADHD med, I’m staying on it and waiting to try another because the price difference between the two drugs is too big. Ugh, see? More embarrassment. I’m not supposed to be struggling like this. I’m supposed to be farther along.

My daughter’s school bill is overdue and I’ll have to pay it plus the entrance fee by the end of the month so she can return to school in August. There are lots of things like that, and various helps I’ve come to appreciate so much like therapy and weekly appointments with a local organizer that have had to stop.

Frankly, the list of things in my life like that right now is huge. I was so proud of myself and the fact that my work was footing the bill for so many good things. At the same time, I think I carried some shame that I have had to pay for things other people might not even need to think about because they have a solid family or support system, or they’re simply better at managing life than me.

You might know what I mean. The last few years have been equally rewarding and difficult. It’s wonderful (and weird!) to learn more about some of my challenges as an adult with autism and ADHD. Honestly, I grew up thinking I was just a weirdo or a failure since I wasn’t diagnosed as a child.

Since I run into awkward issues every single day, I’m grateful to finally understand some reasons actually make sense. I realize I’m not so awful or crazy after all. I just didn’t have the support or education I needed.

These days, I am, or I should say, I was, just trying to make up for some of those lost years and missing resources. Maybe that was stupid. Or at least, naive.

At any rate, yeah. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to make online writing work for me. Now, in 2021, it really isn’t working for me in the way I need.

That could change, I know. Things could always change. All of this is unpredictable. What I understand right now, is that my current circumstances are unstable enough to require that I move on. At least, in some ways.

That’s why I decided to do Ko-fi. To carve out some real time to work on bigger, braver projects. Including books. Ultimately, my big goal is to create a writing career that allows me to take care of my daughter and myself without much fear or worry about covering our needs — especially the need to make my neurodivergent and lipedema life more manageable. I know that taking care of myself in those ways helps me relax and parent better. It’s better for the both of us, I know.

It’s strange, but despite my lack of confidence in myself, my recent writing, or pitching, I really do believe in my work, and I honestly have faith that those things will work out. Eventually. Is there a term for long-distance confidence but imminent insecurity?

Because that’s what I have.

At the moment, I am incredibly burnt out. Really. It just feels like everything I do lately amounts to me trying to just hang on or cope, while frantically trying to write, and running into one bit of failure after another. None of it feels like I’m genuinely okay or thriving. I feel more like I’m grasping for straws and gasping for breath. Like I can’t stop writing because I can’t afford to plummet further down when I’m already falling behind.

How do I talk about these feelings without fear? How do I talk about the fact that my house is a mess again or that all I want to do is relax for a week and take long baths every day of that break?

There’s so much in my life that makes me feel some level of humiliation or shame. So much that makes me feel like I’m awful for not being farther along than this. I feel so weirdly, deeply ashamed about struggling so much right now even though I know in my heart that I’m doing the best I can.

So, no. I’m not doing well and I don’t really know how to talk about that without all of the external fears about how other people might take it. And yet? I feel as if I have to say it. Like I have to find a way to just be real about where I’m at. It’s a place that feels like… hiding is the wrong move.

I can’t hide, not really. How could I when I feel like I’m lost at sea? Or like I’m stuck in the middle of some storm? While I don’t think that’s the longterm reality, that’s what it feels like these days. And the thing about storms is that they calm. Eventually. They calm and they spit out broken things like me. The storms clear and we lay bare and brittle, drying in too much sun.

I can’t hide.

So far in June, I have failed in all of my goals, though not for a lack of trying. I’ve failed because my writing hasn’t led to the results that I need and it leaves me questioning everything I do. I look at my work, at least, from a distance and I rattle off everything I’m doing wrong and everything I should supposedly do just to get better results and then I realize I’m really there.

I’m not in that place where I can write for results, partly because I’ve always written from the heart and dealt with whatever I’m going through, and partly because writers change. I change. Inside… I go through things and take in new information. I learn new lessons and discover more about who I want to be.

What I’ve learned is that I don’t want to choose “the most successful” or expedient thing, you know? I want to choose the path that’s right for me. I want to choose honesty over some curated subscription box of mommy bloggers and social media influencers. I want to prove that people without all of the answers might ask better questions just because we’re not stuck on some image of success.

I want to be real. I want other people to see me doing that and feel like they can do that too. I want to talk about the stuff that makes us feel ashamed and take away its power. Sometimes, I think about that and I think maybe I’ll start a kooky online community like that. Where people talk about their wounds, shame, or embarrassment. Where people learn that it’s okay to not be okay.

I don’t know. I guess the first thing I’d tell them is that we all go through our share of scary shit. Right now, this shit is scary and it leaves me feeling like I don’t dare do anything but work. Just write. And it’s scary wondering if that’s even the best use of my time.

To be honest, I really don’t know what’s best right for me right now. No fucking clue. Each day, whatever I work on seems to come with a painful trade-off and if it was just me, it would be a whole lot easier to just grin and bear it. Since I have Sophie, though, it’s more complicated. I have to function well enough to give her a basic level of care, obviously. And I’m embarrassed (or ashamed) because I feel like I need too much. Too much time to write one story. Too much time to write one book. Too much therapy. Too much alone time just to feel like I’m not so overwhelmed.

I feel like I am constantly way too much and not nearly enough.

This summer has been a beast for all of that. Sophie was actually going to have a sleepover at her Nana’s place for the first time in more than a year tonight. Everyone was so excited. Well, no. I was sort of panicking because I don’t know what would be the best use of my time.

Once again, whatever I choose to work on, I wind up feeling guilty for not working on something else. And yes, I have that nagging voice in my head telling me just how much I need to clean up the apartment. Another tells me how much I need a break myself. So, I’m filled with conflict about virtually everything. Not just one day or one night, but lately, every moment.

This time, Sophie got picked up to go to her Nana’s house and I walked back into our door with the distinct feeling that I needed to just be a human being and take the day off. Instead, I went upstairs and wrote for 5 hours. I didn’t eat when I was hungry. Didn’t use the bathroom. This is what I do. I get fixated on making progress and I tell myself I can’t take breaks until I see the results I need.

When I finally stopped writing, it was because Nana called. She wasn’t feeling well, so, I drove over and got Sophie. She and Nana will try again tomorrow, and I will do my internal panic thing all over again.

I feel bad about it because I know it isn’t healthy. I don’t feel entirely normal living this way either. But I’m compelled to get through it. Even though I sometimes feel like I’m going mad.

About a week ago, when I finally sort of grasped just how poorly I’m doing in terms of my mental and physical health with my current stress levels, I decided to plan an August vacation right before school resumes. Sophie and I have only taken one vacation before — back in 2019, we went to Atlanta, and since I’m fully vaccinated it seemed like a good time to visit the Twin Cities (that’s where I’m from).

I talked to my daughter about it and I decided to use e-credits for Delta over some previously canceled flights. Then, I found a travel agent website that allows you to book a hotel room without pre-payment. We decided to go to a Mall of America hotel because it would give us easy built-in entertainment. If we could find a room with a bathtub, even better.

One of the challenges I have with lipedema is the inability to take baths at home. A large hotel soaking tub actually accommodates my legs. Sophie and I got so excited about the idea of finally getting away and doing something. We watched videos about the Mall of America. I told her about how we used to take the bus over there all of the time when she was a baby. I almost felt like I could breathe just to have that trip to look forward to.

A few days ago, I came to my senses and realized that it wasn’t going to work. I started doing the math and looking at my current progress with work and knew it was a fantasy.

For one thing, flights are a lot more expensive this summer and we have to travel to Atlanta first. I’m not a seasoned enough driver for road trips, and my lipedema has progressed to the point where I can’t get in and out of the airport shuttles. Uber and Lyft aren’t reliable enough, and other car service rides are too expensive since it’s at least a two-hour trip each way. I checked Greyhound — nope. Everything I found as a possible solution came with too many issues, either due to my mobility or issues with driving to new places.

It quickly became one of those things where I realized money was going to be a consistent issue. And that was just about getting to and from the airport. At the airport, and on the plane, I would also run into mobility issues: room for my large legs, squeezing down the aisles, fitting into the seats. A year ago, I could have found flights with first-class tickets for $350 round-trip per person. This year? With the demand up, we’re talking at least double that, plus that damn expense of traveling to and from the airport.

Okay. So I had a moment where my fantasies got the best of me, but I know it’s not a feasible trip. It happens. I still haven’t broken the news to Sophie, though, and I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to explain it. I know it will be okay, of course. She’s a really good kid. I just feel like a jerk, and a seriously shitty mother that I began planning something so ridiculous by just assuming I’d make it work. A year ago, I could have. I think I could have made it happen but this year my work is really flailing and failing to do what I need.

The stupid trip. God, I got so fixated on the idea of going away for a while and chilling out. Like that would save me. This is something that I do sometimes — I tell myself that something will work out when it likely won’t. I try to work hard, think positive, and much like Emma Woodhouse, I tell myself that “stranger things have happened.”

Clearly, I’m no Jane Austen heroine and 2021 doesn’t seem to be my year. I’m trying to make things happen or hoping that they can happen when I know in real life, things are so much harder than that.

I’m much more fortunate than many other people if I can pay my rent. Hell, my daughter has a life I never could have dreamed of when I was a kid. She doesn’t even remember how her life first began when we were still on SNAP and WIC. When we had to live with strangers because I had nothing at all. I tell her about those times and explain how poor we’ve been.

But she doesn’t know that I’m afraid of going back to that place.

I think that’s where so much of my embarrassment comes from. I have some weird and unique needs. Just finding clothing is a huge expense when you have lipedema as severe as mine. When I can’t take care of my struggles on my own, that’s embarrassing to me. So, I know it’s not my "fault" that I do so much better when I work regularly with an organizer. But it’s still embarrassing. And it’s embarrassing to me that my lipedema impacts what bathtubs I can use and how I fit (or don’t fit) into airplane seats. It’s embarrassing that I can no longer climb up into vans or shuttles. I’m embarrassed to have a big monthly car payment and that I don’t even drive on freeways or interstates yet. I’m ashamed that I’m not confident enough to handle my own road trip driving.

This is probably where lots of folks talk about biting the bullet or getting out of your comfort zone. Gaining confidence, pretending that I don’t have lipedema, etc. Just try it. Just do it.  And that’s where I reply, “Hey, have you met autism and ADHD? Do you know what lipedema is really like? Because that’s not how any of that works.”

Except, no.

Honestly? I don’t often say that because I am so freaking embarrassed and I feel like such a failure. It’s exhausting just telling people no, sometimes, when they’re trying to help.

So, that’s where I’m at these days. I’m in this weird place where I’m not okay. I’m nervous about my next stretch of failure. And worried that I won’t be able to get back to a better place. Talking about it is embarrassing, but somehow, not talking about it feels wrong.

I don’t know.

Perhaps 10 years from now I’ll be able to go back, look at this post and not be embarrassed. Or maybe I’ll wonder what the hell I was thinking.

Either way, I figure that there’s somebody, and possibly more than a few somebodys who will read this and try being a bit more honest themselves.

I keep thinking if we all were a little less afraid to look too silly or weak (etc) the world might actually change.

If you love my work and want to support my efforts to break cycles of stigma and shame through awkward honesty, visit me on Ko-fi. From there, you can follow and support my future projects.