You know what's weird? Or maybe not so weird, if you kinda/sorta read here a lot know me? A couple of my summer classes rely strongly on posts to a Discussion Board. We're graded heavily on this. And you may think I'd like this, because, well... two thousand, one hundred and fifty-one blog posts, right? Right? But wrong. I agonize over the flipping things. I go back and forth from wanting to simply (!!!) write benign, bland, banal posts, all innocuous and mild... And wanting to totally say what I think, what I feel, what I believe in. (Oh my...)
Because I go through my life here in North Texas carefully and continually managing my personality. Keeping my mouth shut. Trying to stay under the conservative Bible Belt radar. Because, seriously, my survival depends on it and if you don't believe me, try coming out here, living without money or any kind of power, and say and be exactly what you want. Try it.
Anyway, so each time I post something I have to weigh everything in my mind. On one hand, I'm taking Internet classes from a university that is technically a big bunch of miles away from me and no one actually knows me... On the other hand, this is Texas. On one hand, isn't this supposed to be a, heh, liberal university and aren't these progressive feminism courses? On the other hand, this is Texas (and several of the women taking the class state clearly that they are only taking the course for the necessary Global Perspective credit, that they do not want to be in the class, and that the class offends their religious morality). On one hand, isn't it killing me to have to continually keep quiet ad aren't I closer to the economic point of not having to hide so much? On the other, sigh, hand, I'm still desperately poor and this is still Texas.
If you don't believe me, again, come on out and live here. Come on out and live here as a poor single mother. I dare you.
Each time I see that someone has replied to one of my Discussion Board posts I tense up inside as I click to read it. I brace myself. I tell myself that it doesn't matter if the reply is bad, if people hate me. I get ready for the worst.
And generally -imagine my surprise!- it's not bad at all. And when I opened up my university Inbox this morning, look at this:
********,
I just wanted to tell you that I find your writing to be eloquent. Your posts always make me think, and inspire me to learn more. I wish I had your gift.
I too have worried how I might feed my children and keep them in clothes that fit, and lay awake at night sometimes fretting how I will pay my sons medical expenses. Although we don't officially know each other, I am here if you ever need an understanding shoulder or just need to vent.
Hope your weekend goes well.
*****
Can you imagine? I can't. I swear, dumb tears filled my dumb eyes.
Because, and I blame this on both my upbringing and Texas, I spend a whole lot of time thinking something is wrong with me. That people don't like me. (Living here in Texas, where it is actually TRUE that people don't like me, has certainly not helped...)
I think I used to spend so much time when I was young looking pretty because I wanted the power and protection of being liked. (I wonder if I spend so much time trying to get perfect grades so I can tell myself that I'm smart, that I'm not dumb and wrong and inferior...)
The thing is... after perusing my archives, that Larry guy from twenty years ago disappeared. Completely. No email, no phone, no more visits to my site. And of course I'm left feeling (again) that there must be something seriously wrong with me.
Seriously, seriously wrong with me. That the things I express here are so bad that someone can read them and instantly be filled with contempt towards me. Contempt and, I don't know, aversion.
All day yesterday I walked around feeling like I must be a really bad person. Trying to figure out exactly how bad I am. Wondering what exactly Larry had read to cause him to, I don't know, feel completely disgusted by me.
And I swear, he used to love me. I mean, really, really love me a long time ago. And I guess it was dumb to want him to read my blog, see that I've gotten finally smarter and, I don't know, better and kinder and stuff... Because apparently that's not what he got from this site. Apparently what he got from this site was really, really bad and I know it's dumb to feel so hurt and stuff... But I do.
How stupid is that?
I've got to go. For some dumb reason I seem to be crying and I don't have time for this...
Because I go through my life here in North Texas carefully and continually managing my personality. Keeping my mouth shut. Trying to stay under the conservative Bible Belt radar. Because, seriously, my survival depends on it and if you don't believe me, try coming out here, living without money or any kind of power, and say and be exactly what you want. Try it.
Anyway, so each time I post something I have to weigh everything in my mind. On one hand, I'm taking Internet classes from a university that is technically a big bunch of miles away from me and no one actually knows me... On the other hand, this is Texas. On one hand, isn't this supposed to be a, heh, liberal university and aren't these progressive feminism courses? On the other hand, this is Texas (and several of the women taking the class state clearly that they are only taking the course for the necessary Global Perspective credit, that they do not want to be in the class, and that the class offends their religious morality). On one hand, isn't it killing me to have to continually keep quiet ad aren't I closer to the economic point of not having to hide so much? On the other, sigh, hand, I'm still desperately poor and this is still Texas.
If you don't believe me, again, come on out and live here. Come on out and live here as a poor single mother. I dare you.
Each time I see that someone has replied to one of my Discussion Board posts I tense up inside as I click to read it. I brace myself. I tell myself that it doesn't matter if the reply is bad, if people hate me. I get ready for the worst.
And generally -imagine my surprise!- it's not bad at all. And when I opened up my university Inbox this morning, look at this:
********,
I just wanted to tell you that I find your writing to be eloquent. Your posts always make me think, and inspire me to learn more. I wish I had your gift.
I too have worried how I might feed my children and keep them in clothes that fit, and lay awake at night sometimes fretting how I will pay my sons medical expenses. Although we don't officially know each other, I am here if you ever need an understanding shoulder or just need to vent.
Hope your weekend goes well.
*****
Can you imagine? I can't. I swear, dumb tears filled my dumb eyes.
Because, and I blame this on both my upbringing and Texas, I spend a whole lot of time thinking something is wrong with me. That people don't like me. (Living here in Texas, where it is actually TRUE that people don't like me, has certainly not helped...)
I think I used to spend so much time when I was young looking pretty because I wanted the power and protection of being liked. (I wonder if I spend so much time trying to get perfect grades so I can tell myself that I'm smart, that I'm not dumb and wrong and inferior...)
The thing is... after perusing my archives, that Larry guy from twenty years ago disappeared. Completely. No email, no phone, no more visits to my site. And of course I'm left feeling (again) that there must be something seriously wrong with me.
Seriously, seriously wrong with me. That the things I express here are so bad that someone can read them and instantly be filled with contempt towards me. Contempt and, I don't know, aversion.
All day yesterday I walked around feeling like I must be a really bad person. Trying to figure out exactly how bad I am. Wondering what exactly Larry had read to cause him to, I don't know, feel completely disgusted by me.
And I swear, he used to love me. I mean, really, really love me a long time ago. And I guess it was dumb to want him to read my blog, see that I've gotten finally smarter and, I don't know, better and kinder and stuff... Because apparently that's not what he got from this site. Apparently what he got from this site was really, really bad and I know it's dumb to feel so hurt and stuff... But I do.
How stupid is that?
I've got to go. For some dumb reason I seem to be crying and I don't have time for this...
I'm currently reading this book on the mathematical theories related to randomness. A lot of the math theory has to do with probability, and how human brains don't match up their thought processes with the actual probabilities as determined by the math.
I'm not sure if that was clear, heh. But the point is that in this one chapter I just read, he was explaining the formula of probability that shows that assigning two qualities to one event is far less probable than assigning merely one.
So, given three statements here:
1) That guy read your blog
2) That guy is choosing not to talk to you
3) That guy is choosing not to talk to you BECAUSE he read your blog
By mathematical theory, #3 is always a far lower probability, because you're assigning extra qualities to it. And you're actually assigning THREE qualities together: that he is choosing not to talk to you, that he is doing so because he read your blog, AND that he felt a feeling of revulsion to you/you're a horrible person.
So that's even LESS probable.
The point is, by logic and math, either #1 or #2 is far more likely. You know he read your blog. You know he is choosing not to communicate. But the reasons WHY could be vast. By thinking you know which one it is, you are, according to this physicist, you're making one of the grave human errors that often results in us making wrong assessments and resulting choices.
I'm just saying. For some reason this makes *me* feel a lot better about not projecting the reason why people do what they do, or what they're potentially feeling, when I really have no idea.
Sorry, typo above. If you'd like to edit list item #3 for me, it was meant to be read as :
3) That guy is choosing not to talk to you BECAUSE he read your blog.
(insert "talk" and cap "because")
Hmmm. That makes me feel strangely better.
Though, well... I'm still going to incessantly wonder. And project the worst.
Yeah, it made me feel strangely better, too. It's an interesting book.
I called my long-lost best friend from high school several years ago. I absolutely loved him (as a friend) and he was in love with me (he proposed and I said "No"). So I called him to apologize for several things that I handled poorly, and he seemed to appreciate the thought. But he wanted ZERO ongoing contact with me. He had his life and simply did not want me to be a part of it. Was I bummed? Yes. But I realized that we weren't meant to carry our realtionship forward through the years. There was too much conflict. And it turned out to be OK. I understand where he's coming from. There was a place and time for "us" and that was long ago in the past.