Truth and Discretion
Truth and Discretion
Finding the Balance In Writing a Memoir
Coming out as my real name online has felt terrifying and vulnerable. And at the same time, I'm becoming more at peace with all the pieces of me facing each other in one place instead of hidden away in secret drawers labeled with different names. Every time I publish an essay or make a comment on Twitter I feel millions of peering eyes in the shadows, judging my character and I have no idea who's peering in. That's the beauty and curse of the internet- the anonymity, the notoriety, the high of being seen and feeling like the most popular girl at school with all the thumbs up and heart emojis that twirl around your ego. Thousands of fans supporting you, thousands of stalkers and jealous trolls trying to get under your skin. It used to be me who was the anonymous one under a false name but there was always the fear of being found out, publicly shamed and doxed. It feels like I grabbed the sword and doxed myself but now I can exhale; I've taken away the power from the trolls and took back whore, cunt, slut, bitch into my own hands (also for those followers who don't like my politics and just want to see my tits, you can keep libtard, 'let's go brandon' and unfollow me.) My Twitter account had been my underground sex work community and lifeline since 2014. I still have the account but I changed it to my real name earlier year, that's how I publicly came out after starting writing about my life here. I didn't want to lose my six thousands followers and colleagues by starting over, but I also imagined family members finding my page so I deleted most of my racy photos and comments for fear of judgement. On the flip side, I forgot how many former clients follow me on that account, so now I feel self-conscious writing about my experiences as a sex worker. I feel the eyes peering in from all sides.
Yet I'm still here still speaking my truth, just trembling a little each time I write a post about sex work on Twitter or publish a story here. Coming out as all of me, bit by bit, has felt more vulnerable and naked than when I was posting pics of myself being mostly naked in lingerie and heels under a fake name and hiding my face. Chatting, joking and commiserating daily with my underground community of other faux heaux personas and anonymous hobbyist accounts. When trolls would comment on my posts, they were firing insults at this other woman I made up-- the fake name, brand and persona that shielded the real me.
I now understand fully why so many writers have a nom de plume disguise to hide out and protect their real identity. Getting trolled and threats suck, yet I also understand the freedom in unmuzzling oneself and unapologetically expressing your uncensored, un-pretty truth without being recognized by people who know you in real life. There's the freedom to be the "real" you by being anonymous, that's why most trolls that spew shit online would never have the ovaries to say it to anyone they know in real life or to someone's face.
I don't want to troll anyone or use my words as daggers, but I do want to be as a honest as I can be as a non-fiction writer telling my truth and not mince my words. I imagine that every person who's part of my stories may Google my name at some point, read my work and feel insulted if they recognize themselves. I try to be at peace with it. I want to let go of how they might get angry, feel vindictive, judge me or abandon our relationship. I will try to protect people's identity, but what about family? I can't disguise my father not being my dad ("as a young child, there was this anxious older guy I knew growing up in Long Island, New York. "Bob" lived in a messy bachelor apartment, dated lots of women, picked me up on weekends from my mom's house and let me order hot fudge Sundaes for breakfast at Friendly's. What a kind and interesting fellow! Whatever happened to that guy?") My dad is the only relative I'm in close contact with and he primarily raised me from age eleven after getting primary custody from my mother. Being an only child I have no sibling trauma to write about but I make up for it by having two stepmothers (my dad's wife and my mother's wife.) Two former stepmothers (my father's ex-wives) and my real mother who's been MIA since 1987. My dad isn't thrilled about me coming out as a Mermin or talking about him online, so I made a deal that I would keep anything I write to only be about our relationship, my feelings and not reveal personal details about him or my stepmother. I also made a deal with my partner to not to reveal their name and the story of how we met (it's such a juicy evolutionary love story I wish I could share!) But not at this point in our relationship to protect their privacy.
My mother is a different story, too big in my mind to not reveal all. She's been the core wound of my own story for thirty five years. Lucinda chose to keep Mermin over Newnam (her surname before marriage) even though she's completely written all of us Mermins out of her life. Since she's been in the press telling the world she and Helen have no family, I feel I have the right to tell my truth about her without disguising her name or hiding details. I would never reveal information like their address or phone number as I'm not trying to hurt her (well ok, maybe just a little slap in the face for her disappearing act then telling her story to the world that her only child doesn't exist.)
I envy David Sedaris, the well-known personal humorist essayist who's got no filter on what he thinks of people (generally the worst), reveals all the dirty details about his dysfunctional family and the petty arguments with his husband. He doesn't hide people under pseudonyms or real events (or he hasn't claimed to.) I read somewhere that a few people in his life he's written about cut him off when they read about themselves through his eyes. He doesn't flinch, doesn't apologize or take back his words. I think that's part of what makes his writing great- it feels so honest and raw but we the reader just don't have the courage to say it. He's got a built-in arrogance that I wish I had just a smidge of to protect myself. Is too much empathy the opposite of arrogance? I need to channel my inner wildly confident, unapologetically queer man's femme swagger (snaps fingers in the air, purses lips, spins around as he sashays out of the room not giving two shits of what others think of his fuchsia pink Bowie 'do and his shiny white cowboy boots.)
My curse is that I care too much of what other's think but David just says what he thinks and everyone loves him for his candid humor on the flaws of the cashier at his local bodega, the guy standing behind him on the subway and his family. He's written a lot about his upbringing, his parents and four siblings (five if you count Tiffany who died by suicide, the sister who had mental illness issues and really seemed to resent David.) He didn't seem to have much sympathy for her when she passed away, which helped me to accept that the people who inspire who me to create can also be callous douchebags. That doesn't change who they are as brilliant writers, artists or musicians and I kind of admire that they don't hide who they really are. David doesn't hide the real names or identities of family members he writes about and they have no say on their privacy being made into best-selling books by their famous brother (and their sister Amy Sedaris, a brilliant, eccentric comic actress who also pokes fun at her family- just in a more gentle, less biting way.)
So dear family, friends, clients, sex work colleagues, neighbors, ex friends (link to other story), ex-lovers, high school bullies and other mean girls who grew into adulthood: You have my word that that I will never dox you. I will never give away your real names, addresses, personal information or share photos of your face without permission. I will obscure details of some events to make them less traceable to you, but as a writer I will not change pertinent facts to keep the integrity of my stories. Even my stalkers, you don't have to worry that I'll seek revenge on you- I don't want to stir up the past, re-igniting your desire and give you the attention you crave (pat yourself on the back, dude- you did a great job of being a creep, getting me to notice you and putting the fear into me every time someone knocks at the front door or there's a package left for me.) I'm not trying to hurt anyone directly, I'm simply purging my shame, fear and secrets that have taken up space in my head for too long and I can no longer hold them in. It's like when you've a lot of coffee and bran muffins for breakfast and now you're stuck in traffic for hours. Sometimes it's inconvenient, gross and embarrassing but the shit must come out. Am I right? I hope you will laugh at my own mortification, the absurdity of relationships, sex and having embarrassing bodily functions at the perfect time if I was cast in a Farrelly brothers movie. The pursuit of love, wanting to have just one close friend to tell all your secrets. To be liked, loved and accepted for who I really am. For my readers who are also sex workers and/or queer, trans, gay or anyone who doesn’t blend in and feels alone in the world: I hope my stories and truth inspire you to come out of the closet in your own way and step into your power. If you're someone who knows me in the real world and you think you recognize yourself in one of my stories, remember this- I'm writing from my perspective which may not be your truth, how you see me or the situation we were in. Try to be flattered you made an impression on me, for better or worse.
With this declaration and promise, I will channel my inner David Sedaris, let go of the stupid fucking troll comments, the drive-by bloody critiques and cryptic email messages that can leave me my head spinning for days (it's why I have others read them for me to soften the blow. On a side note, I'd love to see this invented as a professional service as more people make a living as content creators online.) I will let go of the Mean Girl cliques in my community that make me feel like I'm a bullied 7th grader all over again. I will let go of what my dad thinks of me coming out and writing my truth, and especially me who thinks my writing isn't clever enough. That I'm not a "real" writer as I just started last year. I sometimes feel jealous and small when I compare myself to all these Millennial girls with autobiographies at age thirty, book deals, money they piss away and millions of followers. Then I remember I have forty six years of stories filed away in a storage bin in my brain and I just need the courage and creativity to bring them to light. Shut the fuck up me and just start writing!
I hope to make you laugh while cringing a little at the same time. Now I just need to stop talking about writing and fucking write for fuck's sake. Gotta stop at Dunkin's for an extra large latte and a muffin, delete all the shiny distraction apps on my phone for the millionth time, hit up my friend for some Adderall and stay up still 4am to get the all these stories purged out of me.
Thank you for being a witness to my mess. Enjoy the ride.