Wasn’t there a disclaimer on this?

I used to include a disclaimer on all my blogs, all my journals.

You think you know me, but you really have no idea.

Several years ago in a book that I wrote in…in a fit of misery, I started listing all the negative things I didn’t like about myself: I am shy. I am anxious. I am angry. I am lazy. I am unambitious. I am weak. I am not confident…

And so it went on…

But looking back, because hindsight is 20/20, it was in a fit of self-deprecation. I do it so often in writing almost to justify my current actions. Words flow faster than my actual emotions. When I write that I am angry, it’s only because perhaps socially, I am supposed to feel that way. But perhaps I am only mildly irritated. When I write that I am satisfied and happy, it’s only a fleeting moment, fluttering away as quickly as it arrived.

Today, the managers gave me a holiday a gift. I was shocked to find what was inside. To suddenly feel like that they knew me pretty well. It wasn’t the fandango tickets, but a gift certificate to a cooking school. How did they know that I had been thinking along those lines even though I don’t want to define myself as domesticated? And it troubled me for a second that they knew me better than I knew myself.

And then I appreciated the thought.

There are some people who think they know me well because of my journal or blog. They say, “I know what you would say.” As if I am purposefully transparent in this writing. Then there are others who know me because I interact with them daily. And yes, perhaps the me they see is who I am. But in both cases, I have been greeted with a that’s not who I thought you are.

In those rarer moments of tantrums, I suddenly become whoever I want to be. Just like the other twin of a Gemini.

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