Today I went through blogs I follow, as I always do each morning. I laughed my way through my morning coffee after bumping into an old post by Amy Sue Smith on the power of putting the word “girl” in a book title (it’s a very booming and successful trend, I might add), see here, I cringed and felt my heart swell as I read through a heartfelt blog post by a Turkish man named Melih Onvural, as he wrote an open letter to his then primary school teacher and now Facebook friend, who proudly yet blindly voted for the shrewdest and, in my opinion, most psychopathic schmuck to ever be given the opportunity to preside over the most powerful country in the world, and what this all meant to and for him. I read snippets of local reads, I fell in the sea of stories and insightful thoughts from people all over the world, and remembered why I love reading and writing so much. People’s emotions are spewed all over the internet in various yet beautiful forms of the English language; it’s always amazing to see how much I belong here. I remembered why I read so much. Why I started this blog. Then I started wondering why I stopped. Many people have asked me this question too, most recently a member of the coven. I think it’s about time I explain myself.
I started the social media game in the year 2009, my matric year. After showing me how awesome Facebook is, my sister gladly set up a new e-mail address for me and by the end of the day, I was an addict. Finding out what people were up to on a constant basis, no matter how far they are, finding out people’s thoughts on matters as trivial as a new computer game, to more pressing matters, I loved it all. I ate it all up like a toddler eating cake. Ravaged that plate, in fact.
Then I got into it, constantly updating my status with thoughts of upcoming tests that were taking up all my me-time, being young and in love, my erratic emotions towards almost everyone I was close to, everything my young and free mind was going through at that point in time. It was bliss.
Then one day, I realized, I don’t want so many people knowing so many things about me. I mean, my friends, yes, but they don’t include all 300 people I have on my Facebook friend-list. In fact, I have more issues about people that know me personally knowing everything about me, more than the guy I had a brief chat with at Checkers and has now become my latest addition (to my friend list. Get your head out of the gutter). I care about what people think of me, very much so. I am extremely self-conscious, would change a million things about me if given the chance and always feel that people see my flaws first when they look at me, because I notice them before anything else. I wouldn’t say I am she-needs-a-shrink bad but I have my issues. And the blog was supposed to change that for me. That was its purpose from the onset: to entertain, get me writing again and get me to sort out my issues of giving a fuck about what people think of me. Instead I did the opposite. When my book review was unleashed, I started feeling the pressure of so many people, people that know me personally, knowing what my thoughts were, and I panicked. I am quite secretive by nature so this reaction was natural. I started feeling watched (stupid I know).
But later I realized, the problem doesn’t lie with any of these people, it lies with me. I just care too much about what people think. Where has that gotten me in life? Most importantly, where the hell is it going to get me in life?? Absolutely nowhere! So no more hiding out, the falsely accused snob is back with a vengeance and no fucks given. It’s going down.