Truthfully, I do not share everything. There are details, facets, situations, realities that I do not reveal in this public space. A girl has to keep some secrets, especially when she’s dating, working for a corporation, and facing the very real possibility of building a business clientele.

Why, then, do I choose to share things others would keep private?

I could tell you that my parents prized honesty above nearly all else. To the extent that my punishments were doubled for lying about my transgressions. I could tell you that sharing helps me to let go, that in telling you these stories I am better able to put them in perspective. I could say that I’m kind of an attention-whore. I might tell you that one of my favorite quotes is: “A story untold could be the one that kills you.” - Pat Conroy. All of those things would be true.

They are all secondary to the biggest truth.

I need to be seen and heard, that I might be understood.

I need to reclaim the pride I have in who I am, what I’ve seen, and where I come from.

If I hide these things from you, from the world, I also hide them from myself.

My three o’ clock in the morning voices tell me that these stories, these hurts, these shames are the reason I will never be truly loved. They whisper that these stories are proof of my unworthiness, of my brokenness, of my failure. They remind me that the people who love and appreciate me do so because they don’t know yet- they haven’t seen me as I am. They convince me that these stories are my fault, my doing, the result of being defective somehow.

So I lay there in the twilight, in the dark darkness and let them torture me. I believe them. I cry and gasp and let myself become convinced that no one could ever love me properly if they really knew me. I take the blame and the shame as my blankets- warm and comforting with their familiar weight. I believe their story, those awful voices, and I cry myself to sleep.

I wake up with puffy red rimmed eyes and an overwhelming urge to construct an insurmountable wall between myself and the world around me. To insulate myself from more disappointment, rejection, pain and sorrow.

There is, for me,  only one way to survive that, to avoid falling down a rabbit hole of anxiety, depression and paranoia.

I have to hold that story up to the light. I have to write it out, write it down, release it to the scrutiny of theme and sensation and narrative. I have to give it to you, to myself, to the collective. Shame can’t survive the light. It dissolves, it melts away. As soon as I hit publish, the shame is gone.

Then you read it, and you comment, you email me, you tweet me, you send me messages on Facebook. You empathize, sympathize, encourage, confess. I kill the shame, and then you fill that space with love, insight, solidarity, support and encouragement.

When I get a little disclosure remorse, which does happen from time to time, I only have to think of one of the emails I’ve received from complete strangers who take a moment out of their own busy and complicated lives to share their feelings, their reactions, their own stories. It mattered to them, and that is worth whatever disadvantage being so open brings.

Thanks for helping me set my secrets free.

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of August, we’ve chosen to write about Physical and Mental Abuse. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis.

I was in the break room, pouring my first cup of coffee when she opened the door. Behind a thick layer of well applied make up, a rail thin girl looked back at me with two black eyes. I asked her what happened to her, even though I already knew the answer. She told me that she ran into a door. The silence between us was thick and heavy, until I locked eyes with her.

“Just because you love him doesn’t mean he’s good for you.”

The door hardly closed behind me before I choked back my own tears.

Because I couldn’t take my own advice.

As horrible as physical abuse is, it’s easier in a way. You can see a black eye. You can see the flinch that comes with a quick movement, a raised hand. There is no question about physical abuse- lay hands on me in anger, and that’s an easy problem to identify and solve. I swore a long time ago that I would never tolerate being hit ever again. I thought I broke the cycle.

I was so very wrong.

Mental and emotional abuse is a gray area. It’s fluid. Easier to take the blame for. I have a temper and a sharp tongue of my own. I can’t say I’m not sometimes cruel or ugly. I’m difficult. Demanding. Pushy. Impatient.

It wasn’t until I got out that I let myself realize how bad it was.

I still hear those words when I look in the mirror. When I get stood up for a date. When I have a bad day.

“At least I don’t beat you like your father did…”

“You repulse me.”

“You’re crazy. You’re fucking insane.”

“If you weren’t so needy…”

“You’re just being melodramatic and hypersensitive.”

Of course, there were good times. He was very charming and loving when he wanted to be. Manipulators always are. That was what he did. He whittled away at my self esteem, at my judgment. He kept me so busy worrying about and struggling to earn his affection, attention and approval that I didn’t often take the time to consider whether or not he was worthy of my affection, attention and approval. When I did take the time and he fell short, it was always my fault. I didn’t inspire him to treat me well. I expected too much. I was too needy. I put too much pressure on him to make me happy. I needed a life of my own.

So I got one. I made friends. I started writing. I caught a huge break in my career. I started college.

Things got worse and not better. Now I loved my friends, my “screwing around on the internet”, my “corporate jet set lifestyle” and my schoolwork more than I loved him. He was suffering from neglect because of this life he asked me to build. My outside interests were proof that I didn’t care about him.

I was the selfish one. I was the foolish one. We couldn’t pay our bills because he couldn’t keep a job, but I was selfish and foolish for spending $30 at Planned Parenthood on my birth control patches instead of $5 pills. The fight that ensued was horrific, and he said something that broke my heart, something so horrible and cruel and ugly that I cannot and will not make it public.

It was my fault he wasn’t attracted to me. I was unattractive, repulsive. I didn’t take care of myself. Never mind that I stopped taking care of myself because he quit paying any attention to my appearance, because I was exhausted, because there was no time, money or energy for makeup and cute outfits while I was struggling to support both of us.

That’s all behind me now, and I’ve linked to an article that I’ve memorized to keep it from ever happening again.

If your boyfriend or husband makes you feel worse about yourself, if you find yourself walking on eggshells, if you find yourself lying (even by omission, which was my specialty) to the other people who love you, you are being abused.

Love doesn’t have to hurt.

A conversation with my Mom (who has nearly reached her pre-chemo insanity levels, if you were wondering) this weekend revolved around my cousin’s reaction to my sister’s impending arrival in my home.

“I heard the girls are moving in together.”

“Yes, they are… <blah, blah, I will spare you because this would probably add 200 words to my post length>”

“Good luck with that.”

I think Mom brought it up because she couldn’t decide whether or not to be offended.

I wasn’t. In the first few months we dated, the wasbund once found it necessary to break up one of our sister fights; pulling me off of her as we both screamed and cried and I beat the tar shit out of her with a tube sock filled with tangerines. In my own defense, I cannot even publish what she said to me to earn that beating. You know if even I won’t put it out there, she got what she deserved.

Anyway. I can’t remember the last time I saw my cousin, but I believe she’s been married twice since then, so since she doesn’t really know either of us as adults, it’s hard to get my feathers ruffled.

What did I take away from this conversation, other than a splitting headache and the urge to cram my Mom in a shoebox and ship her to some third world country?

I think maybe “good luck with that” is the snottiest phrase ever. I know that I employ it frequently when I’m being snarky.

This has been the summer of inescapable wretched mind numbing madness causing heat. The things I’m sure of aren’t happening fast enough, and the uncertainties I’m facing are probably all going to resolve in the same two week span. As a result, I’m crabby.

It’s too hot to eat, too hot to sleep, and there is too much to think about.

So since I feel all crabby and snotty, I figured I’d tell some people “good luck with that“.

Thinking that women with any reasonable amount of self esteem and relationship experience will tolerate your douchebag antics?

Good luck with that.

Screwing with me in terms of my most basic requirements for well being?

Good luck with that.

Acting like you’re kind of a big deal when the only thing you’ve really got is a grandiose sense of self-importance?

Good luck with that.

Continually marrying men even though you know you’re more frigid than a case of Popsicles in a deep freeze?

Good luck with that.

Trying to bully me into solving a problem for you that creates a problem for me?

Good luck with that.

Keeping me in the dark as to your intentions so as to keep me motivated?

Good luck with that.

Bratting the hell out for no good reason and thinking you’re going to escape the requisite calling out I will undoubtedly deliver at the first opportunity?

Good luck with that.

Attempting to capture my attention with the lamest excuse for charm I’ve seen in the past year?

Good luck with that.

Underestimating either of my father’s daughters individually, or unthinkably, both of them united in a common agenda with said father’s backing?

Good luck with that!

Mission the first: Spread the word

My dear, sweet friend has a project that epitomizes everything he’s about; living a life rich in adventure and experience, and leaving every other life he touches better than he found it.  Without his support, I would have probably frozen to death this winter, and my gutters would be laying in the front yard. Not to mention the times that he helped me get my head on straight when I got super crazyface. I’m so incredibly proud to know him, and he’s been there for me with a grace and love that takes the breath out of my chest.

The project is Adventure Philanthropy. These men are going to take off on their motorcycles in search of sweet places to climb and para-glide and volunteer all over the world. They’ll whet their appetites for adrenaline and do whatever they can to improve the surrounding communities: providing clean water, bettering the schools, building houses, whatever is needed that they can provide. Awesome, huh?

Right now, they’re trying to get the word out about the project, and that’s something I can help with. So, if you love me even a little bit, go become a fan on Facebook, follow them on Twitter, and tell your friends. Help me give him something a little more tangible than my undying gratitude in return for all he’s given me.

Mission the second: Give a girl her dream job, already!

For those of you who are unfamiliar, LiLu is a hilarious and talented blogger. You owe her a debt of gratitude for starting TMI Thursday- without her, you would never read about my most unflattering and embarrassing moments. I know how popular those posts are, and seriously, she’s the reason you know my dirty secrets. She also happens to be a ton of fun and pretty sweet.

MTV is holding a contest to fill their new Twitter Jockey position. This girl was born for this job, but she needs our votes to take the crown, and she also needs some help with her various challenges during the competition. So please, for the sake of all that is TMI, go here and follow the link to vote, and then go here and help her out with her latest challenge. Let’s help a girl get out of the cube farm and into her dream job.

So, please, go forth and share the love!

As soon as I’m done grieving its cruel, cruel end, I will tell you all about Vegas.

Well, I will tell you some things about Vegas.

For now, send Advil.

I will be entirely too busy laying by the pool during the day and causing trouble at night to post here.

Last night, while I was packing, I tried to remember the last time I had a real vacation. A going somewhere just because not seeing family not camping not a long distance date not a business trip longer than a long weekend vacation.  I believe it was the beach trip of 2007.

Not only is this my first vacation in three years, and not only am I traveling with a bestie, but I am unbelievably over the moon heart aflutter excited to be meeting some absolutely fabulous faces whose hearts I already know.

This trip could not come at a better time. I need an escape. I need a distraction. I need a new point of travel reference that doesn’t include a big ol’ mystery that still haunts me at three in the morning. I need to not be a waswife, an employee, a homeowner, a excrazyfacesomethingorother, I need to not be Catherine for a little while. I need to spend a few days being a verybadcat.

Can you think of a better place to accomplish all of those things?

I can’t.

(many thanks to the illustrious B, who is so mired in sandal-searching, housekey-keeping, kitteh-foster-mom’ing and airport shuttling that she will probably be the happiest bestie of the three of us when our plane takes off…)

“well I don’t know, but I’ve been told
you never slow down, you never grow old
I’m tired of screwin’ up, tired of going down
tired of myself, tired of this town…”

-tom petty “mary jane’s last dance“

I’m not shy with strangers or in public, but I’m not as open with the people whose opinions matter most to me as I probably should or could be.  I may be strong, but I’m not tough. I’m not the type of girl who can always laugh at herself at the suggestion of others. I’m not easy going. I’m not good at thinking before I speak or taming my sharp tongue. I’m not good at pretending to like people I don’t care for.

I’m not a feminist. I’m not the type of girl that loses herself in a man, though I am the type of girl that surrenders (eventually) to love. I am not overly eager or impulsive in my relationships, but I’m also not willing to lose out on something because I couldn’t take a risk. I don’t believe in fairy tales, but I’m not above enjoying their entertainment value, either. I don’t need a man, but I sure as hell want one.

I’m not a daily makeup wearer, I’m not always concerned with my appearance. I’m not a wallflower, either- I know when it’s my time to shine. I’m not trendy; I don’t care what is “in” this season, and I’m not ashamed of that. I’m also not afraid of a low cut shirt or a short skirt.

I’m not good at losing. I’m not fond of doing anything I’m not very good at for this very reason. I’m not graceful, I’m not athletic, but I’m not going to turn down a sweet hike or a primitive campsite. I’m not a team player, and I have no use for team sports. I’m not a tomboy, but I’m not prissy, either.

I have no sense of direction- I get lost in large buildings, for goodness sake. I am not patient. I am not always as kind as I should be, and I’m ashamed of that, but it doesn’t stop me from being catty and cruel sometimes. I don’t take criticism well because I take it seriously, and for some reason I see the two as mutually exclusive.

I’m not thick-skinned, and I’m not good at dealing with rejection. I’m also not the type of person that looks over my shoulder after I’ve walked away. I may be a forgiver, but I’m not a forgetter.  I’m not overly familiar with the concept of personal space. I’m not good at calling, but I will talk your ear off when you call me.

I’m not a fan of flavored creamers, or creamers at all, or sugar for that matter. I’m not a beer drinker. I’m not a fan of cheap vodka, and I’m not above finishing a bottle of chardonnay on a bad night. I’m not incredibly materialistic, but I’m also not afraid to treat myself when it’s important. I’m not a big jewelry person, but I would like another wedding ring someday. I have no use for fake nails, but I will kill for a great pedicure. I am not a fan of pantyhose. I am not the type of girl that wears much of anything under her skirt.

I’m not tolerant of much less than total honesty. I’m not into games. I do not believe that love has to hurt. I don’t believe in unconditional love- I much prefer acceptance, understanding and forgiveness. I’m not without some baggage, but I’m not about laying it out on the bed and fishing through it every few days. I’m not good at being ignored; I actually kinda refuse to accept it.

I’m not ashamed of being a total Daddy’s girl. I’m not above shameless flirting. I’m not a diet/fat-free/artificial sweetener kind of girl. I’m no vegetarian. I’m not without a serious ice cream and dark chocolate habit. I’m no songbird, but I’m not afraid to sing my heart out in the car or the house.

I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m not ashamed of it.

I’m not often the prettiest, smartest, most talented or charming girl in the room, but I’m sure as hell not afraid to admit when I am.

You are my soul mates. Every single one of you. Even, and maybe especially, the people who read here faithfully and never or almost never reach out. If you are reading these words right now, you are one of my soul mates.

I’ve been baring my soul here for three years now. Writing about my life and my perspective as honestly as possible; even when I was scared, even when it hurt, and even when I was drowning in shame. These posts are pieces of my soul.

I said yesterday that I feel like I am becoming who I was meant to be in the world, and every single one of you is a part of that. When you leave a comment here, when you send me an email about a post, when you reach out to commiserate, sympathize, constructively criticize, encourage, confess, and compliment, you are taking the soul pieces I offer here and leaving me with a piece of your own. Every time that happens, I am bettered in some way.

Some of you tell your own stories, and I am humbled and privileged to have benefited from your perspectives and in so many cases, your friendship and camaraderie.

Steve, who reminds me not to deny myself the simple beauty of my surroundings.

Molly, who provides a classic example of grace and style even and especially in difficult circumstances.

Courtney, who reminds me to relish my secret dreams and not discount them.

Vanessa, who in simply living her own life challenges me to take control of mine.

MsDarkstar, who inspires me to do the very best I can with what I have.

Jen, who does the right thing even when it is as pleasant as sticking a fork in her eye.

LiLu, who reminds me to keep a sense of humor about the indignities of life.

Manifest Green, who assures me that if I’m happy, I’m doing something right and to hell with the rest of it.

Tricia, who always encourages me to do something different and step out of my comfort zone a little, and who personifies selfless commitment.

Mr. Apron, who reminds me that life is absurd, and that’s okay.

Nico, who proves that even robots respond well to the love and helps me remember the value of industry when I’d rather go useless.

Kim, who shows us everyday what life can be like when you hold fast to your dreams.

Stacy, who reminds me of my own inner strength by displaying hers so clearly.

Emma, who reminds me to relish all the little things in life that bring us joy.

Amy, who came to me when I needed her the most; to serve as living proof that this world serves up second chances if only we are bold enough to embrace them. She may be looking at a hiatus as a salaried teacher, but this lady will always be a teacher to me.

Derek, a fellow money honey and an Irish boy with a heart of gold- a living example of a well played high stakes game.

Matt, who reminds us all that no man can be defeated who has the courage to keep fighting.

Danny Evans and his lovely wife Sharon, who are my definitive living proof that happily ever after exists, if you are willing to work hard at it.

Miah, who proves that incredible adventures can be had without sacrificing the responsibilities of life. Among one hundred other things he’s done for me, he reminds me with every post that I won’t be so concerned about balance sheet recons when my days run short. (Also a gold-hearted Irish boy, and the perfect example of why such men make me weak in the knees…)

Angela, and all the other mommy bloggers, who take undue and unfair criticism like so much water off of a duck’s back and give me faith in my own ability to navigate motherhood, if I ever get the chance.

I love you all. Happy Blogoversary to me, and thanks to all of you for being you.

My discomfort always stems from the same thought- what if someone were to judge me just on that post? What if someone just clicks through here and this is their first impression of me? Or, more terrifying, what if someone who knows what my laugh sounds like reads it and it changes their perception of me for the worse? Of course, you know the end to this story- I always end up reassuring myself that not being true to myself is a much worse fate than losing favor with people.

Still, when I’m in the middle of reorganizing my kitchen cabinets and wondering what a fucking lunatic I am, I get a Twitter notification with a link to a sweet surprise.

Thank you, Angela, for the reminder that if you trust people with the truth of who you are, you’ll be rewarded by the ones who matter the most.