A Moment of Truth
I‘m becoming aware of more and more options for social media as time goes on, but only years after they’ve been out. While I’m behind the pack and feel as though I will forever be that way, I need to make the effort to try. I’m used to not fitting in. Even my family doesn’t know what to do with me. So don’t feel bad if my style isn’t your cup of tea. I get it. Hell, I expect that to be the case.
Observation is my strongest skill. I watch and mimic and try to find the path of least resistance to joining groups. Which is to say, the path where the use of my voice is not required. I could barrel my way in and make my presence known with some swooping grand gesture, but from my perspective that’s dangerous. That kind of attention means people will have expectations and, without a doubt, I will fall short of that initial eye-catching impression.
So, I’m gonna be blunt and keep expectations low:
Quiet and shy even among family, I was the girl who had to know a person before I could talk to them. Being a daydreamer meant often getting dismissed and overlooked.
From a young age, the expectation was that I would smile and be pretty with no opinions or thoughts of my own. My existence was empty. I put value and meaning into my parents’ lives by being pretty enough and quiet enough. Anything less than perfection was worthless. Being too bold wasn’t feminine. I had to fit into this niche of a woman in their eyes regardless of how I felt.
To say I struggle with rejection is an understatement. It physically hurts when someone doesn’t like me. I get sick over it.
So please excuse the fact that I’m here under a pseudonym. Lizzette is my security blanket. My armor. She’s still me. In fact, she’s more me than the mask I wear when interacting under my given name. It’s safe hidden beneath this name. It feels as though it’s okay to speak up and have an opinion from behind my armor. I don’t have to be pretty. I don’t have to be quiet. Using words like articulate and demeanor won’t get a scowl from my mother. It’s even safe to let my sordid imagination trickle onto the page for others to enjoy.
I need to venture out and get a feel for the expectation and comfort level other people have to see how sordid I’m allowed to be. Are graphic sexual depictions allowed? Am I allowed to showcase relationships that are toxic as fuck but common? Can I work through my demons here?
Well, I’d ask if I could write debauchery to the level of making my mother clasp her pearls and my father disown me, but I need only mention breastfeeding to get that effect.
While I will most likely indulge in releasing my erotic tales of broken people, I may slip in some truth about the girl behind the pseudonym from time to time. Venting into the void isn’t out of the question. I likely won’t delve into the most painful parts of my life, but I may hint at them.
I don’t know where this will take me. I don’t even know if I’ll keep using this site. Chances are it’s already inundated with users who write far better than me. Writers who know how to pull you in on the first sentence with a great hook. I haven’t mastered that. Or titles. Or synopses. I’m bad at marketing myself, I’m not concise, and I prattle.
Maybe I’ll just use this as a blog for myself and post the stories elsewhere? Detail the stories behind the stories. If it finds an audience, cool. If not? Whatever.
With that, let’s find out how it feels to step up to my fears and pull more of my true self into the open by starting my journey here.
