How did I not know about Sarah Haskins? I don’t know, but now that I do, life is a little bit happier.

Confession: I’ve been thinking about my essay in Does This Book Make Me Look Fat? and asking myself stuff like: Was I truthful? Do I believe it? Could I have written and believed it I hadn’t lost weight? In the essay, I’m basically saying, yeah, I had to accept and have compassion on myself before I could take care of myself and that self-hatred is not really super productive, but would I have even said yes to contributing to that anthology if I was still a “before”? Maybe I’m only free and easy to talk about weight now that I feel (somewhat marginally) protected from accusations of fatness. Maybe I’m a hypocrite. Now that I’ve gained some of my lost weight back and have kind of settled into what will likely be my permanent body, and it’s not thin, can I still speak freely about body acceptance and not be a big fat liar because deep down I really do think I should be a smaller size? I think if I wrote that essay today, it would be different. If you’re interested in this topic, there’s some good stuff here and here, and of course the Haskins link above to her show where she very amusingly skewers what the media has to say about being a woman.

Last week while revising an essay for the upcoming Jesus Girls: True Tales of Growing Up Female & Evangelical (my essay will appear in IMAGE in March, before the book comes out closer to summer), I found myself asking the same questions about truth. Am I telling it? In essay writing, my temptation is to wrap up with an uplifting observation about Life, a kind of “but I’ve figured this out and the problem is now solved” view of the world. The first versions of the Jesus essay ending were like that. A little “Hallmarky,” as I said to the editor. When she agreed, I said, “plus, it’s not true,” and got to thinking about why the truth is so hard to write. I think I try to protect people. I try to protect myself, my memories. Being a people-pleaser, I question my version of events and worry that someone from that experience, from my life, will say, “No, that’s not how it happened.” And being a perfectionist control freak, I don’t like to admit to myself that I haven’t figured it out, whatever the particular “it” is. 

I’ve been reading a lot of Anne Lamott lately, especially her essays on faith, and often I find myself thinking, with a cringe, that this or that thing she wrote could have, must have hurt or offended other people who shared those experiences with her. Or thinking,  I would like to write something like that, but then my mom/sister/pastor/in-laws/friends would know what I really believe (or don’t believe) and that would mean… That’s where I get stuck. That would mean…what? That not every single person in my life would approve of everything I say, think, and feel? And that’s bad because…? It means I’m not perfect and not everyone likes me? Okay. At least with fiction, there is that disclaimer in the front of the book about any resemblance the book may bear to real life is purely “coincidental.” With essay, you can’t hide behind the characters. Fiction is a way to say what you think and still be liked and approved of. I tend to put a shine on the non-fiction, and on my life; the “love me! love me!” shine.

It seems when you write the truth, there’s always a price you pay. But then when you don’t, there’s a price you pay for that, too. So, like with just about everything in life, you’ve got to choose which price you’re willing to live with. It’s hard for me to hurt others, or admit failures, or risk disapproval. But the older I get, the dissatisfaction of dishonesty is beginning to outweigh those risks.