For I don’t know how long (years, though, for sure), I’ve lived with the plan to write a memoir. In this memoir, I’ll reveal the decisions I’ve made and the actions I’ve taken that I regret. The memoir will contain more than that, more than just a compilation of regrets, but the basic premise behind it has always been to write a record of who I actually am and expose it to the world.
I can all but guarantee that anyone who knows me in person and reads this thinks I’m not that bad, not bad enough to warrant the fear I have of sharing myself in this way. They’re correct in the sense that there’s always someone else who’s worse. I’m not trying to make this out like I’m the worst person in the world.
What I am trying to say is this, though: combining the person I’ve been to everyone I know with the person I’ve been in secret, overlaying the two people, reveals – in my mind at least – a different person, the person I suppose I really am. And that person is the the worst person I know.
I’m guessing that almost everyone who reads this will doubt me on what I’m saying here, thinking I must either be exaggerating or mistaken. I guess I’ll leave the final call on that to you. When the memoirs finally come out, when I gather enough courage to both write and publish those volumes, you’ll get the chance to read them and decide for yourself.
For now, though, I live with it. I live with two people inside me: the one I show, which is the one you know (or think you know), and the one I keep secret, saying I’m saving it for the memoirs. I live with both of them and the knowledge that they both exist inside me.
I live with this all the time, but today it feels especially heavy.
