You never know

I read this from NPR this morning about blogs and personal brands and what we post. I was thinking I’m lucky my personal brand (god I hate that term) is just me, my messy ass self. If I were to get charged with say, possession of paraphernalia, no one would be surprised. And I only know how to spell paraphernalia because I recently got pulled over and charged with possession of paraphernalia. Did you know there was a “r” in it? Neither did I until I had to pay a $400 fine for a pre-roll tube. Fucking Texas.

But then, there’s a lot I never discuss. I never discuss who I’m dating or if I’m dating someone. I did once or twice, back before I fully understood the parasocial relationship. Sometimes they’ll make a point to comment all over my twitter in such a way that makes it clear we know one another. Someone posted a selfie in my bathrobe, the shitty flannel thing that I was wearing in my old profile picture. Sometimes, long afterwards, they’ll pop into the mentions to make it clear they know me or my dog. It’s uncomfortable. But more than that, I wonder if they know what they’re exposing themselves to. How weird it can get. You can try to warn someone. But you can’t really. You don’t know until it’s too late.

I no longer post anything identifying about my family. I’m reluctant to discuss them at all. Doesn’t matter how innocent. I said something in the form of a joke once, my niece had barged into the bathroom to ask about an ipad charger. I said something like “I don’t know why you guys act like parenting’s so hard. All you have to do is remember to lock the door so they don’t barge in demanding you answer questions on the toilet about iPad chargers.” The point was that parenting is hard and y’all deal with some weird shit. The point someone on the internet made was that I was grooming my niece and should teach her boundaries. I thought about it for two seconds and decided I like that she doesn’t think it’s weird to barge in when I’m trying to pee but the fuck do I know. I’m not a parent.

Sometimes I’ll forget for a moment. Never longer than a moment. I think my friends, fellow writers are on twitter. And I want to show them something. I forget how something takes a life of its own. How you can’t control it once it’s out there. How once something travels beyond those who know you and how you talk, how it’s misinterpreted and reinterpreted and context is lost. You’d think I’d know by now but I still forget.

Some guy I gave a ride to when I driving for lyft sent me an email. He said he’d been planning a suicide, or implied as much. I’d thought as much at the time. I’ve been there. It’s not hard to see. I taught him to drive a stick shift and we talked for a while. And years later, I get an email saying it mattered. My initial reaction was holy shit, and I stupidly posted the email then took my dog to a park. When I got home, the post had gone viral. There were messages from everyone from Good Morning America to the Daily Show. I deleted the post and answered no one.

I deleted it because he sent it to me, not the goddamn internet. And I’m a fucking asshole for posting it. But I also deleted it because I know what it would do to him. I know it’s not actually a decision someone can make because they’ll never have the full information until it’s too late. You’re forever known as your darkest moment. They’ll take one moment, one line, one quote, and that’s all you are, forever. Nothing else about you matters. Nothing you’ve said and nothing you’ve done. You’re reduced to a moment. You’re a caricature, a symbol. You lose yourself.

People still ask about my niece. They want to know how she’s doing. What she’s doing. I don’t know them. They don’t know her and they don’t care about her. But they think they’re entitled to know. I told them one thing. They deserve the rest.

When my dog was dying, I shut off replies. And people quote-tweeted the notice, the notice of my dog’s death, to announce they were unfollowing me because I wouldn’t let them express their condolences. They were entitled to his death too. And I’d robbed them of that. Good riddance.

I was joking with a friend that if something happened to Woody, I’d just gaslight the internet. What dog? I never had a dog. What are you even talking about? Maybe I’d find a dog who looked a little like him. How dare you mention he looks different. He had a little work done. We don’t talk about it.

I’m about to try to sell another book. And it’s fucking with my head. I know now what it’ll do to me, what it’s done to me. I know how small my circle’s gotten. How lonely it can be, when everyone knows a part of you, and they’re entitled to more. When they think they know you. When you’re a risk to those who do know you. Because you gave them, the internet, the fans, a little. And they want more.