Shame, shame, I know your name (and your height, weight, social security number and sign).

I lied to my parents. I can't remember one real lie I ever told as a kid (I even confessed to shoplifting the She-Ra trading cards at age 6 or 7), so why start now? (Author's note: I can't remember lying to my parents or ever having the need to as the leash was loose, but I'm sure at one time or another, a thread of fib seeped out.)

Up to visit for an overnight in NH (all visitors stay at my sister Becky's house---some day I'll make that up to her), I enjoyed a nice summer meal and evening with the 'rents a couple of days ago. I, too, stayed at Bec's house for the night as Dan was away and Molly has been begging me to sleep over there. The next morning I had to take off early for an appointment.

A 50-minute appointment.

The same appointment I have every Wednesday at 11:30am.

With a psychiatric nurse practitioner; my therapist.

I told my parents it was a dentist appointment.

Then I felt like a lying liar. In addition to the guilt (though I know no harm was done), I felt like an idiot.

Really? At age 28, married and 10 years of independence under my belt, I'm lying to my parents about where I'm going?

(Dan's response when I talked to him about it: "Next time you can say, 'I'll be at a sleepover Wednesday at 11:30.'")

On the surface it seems an appropriate lie. It's my business. I have the right to keep such information to myself. Also, it's understandable that I would want to protect my privacy, especially given my dad's position that psychologists are wacky, therapy is futile and nothing short of a "magic wand" can help anybody who is trying to deal with a painful past. (At least part of this stance is based on his experience as a psych resident in medical school. He also actually wears a shirt which says, "You never see a motorcycle parked outside a therapist's office.")

I disagree.

A lot.

(Maybe not on the motorcycle bit---I park at a public garage so I would never know---but about everything else. I'll save for later my laundry list of reasons why I disagree, including the fact that, at least in my experience, therapy has been less about the past than the present; and the fact that I believe that there are many, many things short of a magic wand that can help people; and that to deem an entire profession wacky based on a few bad eggs would be the same as, I don't know, calling ER doctors pompous, money-hungry, elitists based on a handful of bad experiences. But, as I said, I'm saving that for later.)

You could see why I lied though, right? Why open myself to the potential criticism or even the discomfort? I don't have to tell my family everything.

I don't.

Knowing this didn’t settle my feelings of uneasiness though. (My mom not only asked me if I had time to floss---gulp---but she also later asked how the appointment went. Fine, I said. I hate lies. Even tiny ones like this.)

Yes, I am entitled to my privacy. Yes, it would have been perfectly acceptable for me to continue telling this lie for the rest of my life if I felt it was right for me to do so. The thing is, for me, it's not. I’ve learned that if I'm not being honest about something, if I'm holding my tongue when it feels wrong to do so, the reason is usually based in shame. And I am no longer entitled to shame. Shame is perfectly unacceptable.

Being embarrassed about going to therapy isn’t a new concept. Though nobody denies that we are a therapy-heavy culture, it is always regarded with this sort of hands-on-the-hips, eyes-a-rolling, reproachful judgment. Even the term ‘therapy-heavy’ implies excess. While certainly a person could over-therapize (it needs a verb form), as they could over-exercise, over-socialize, over work, etc., I think there’s an argument to be made for worrying about people not looking inward enough, rather than being so concerned with them overdoing it. (Maybe there would be less abuse of drugs, alcohol, sex and gambling if we did. It’s a theory. I’m still up betting the ponies every night with a joint in one hand, a beer in the other and a hooker on my lap, so don’t ask me.)

I understand that the topic is a romping ground for funny (I know a woman who is being treated for anxiety and wants to break up with her therapist but is too anxious to do so---good stuff there) and for self-deprecating humor. Listen, nobody appreciates a little self-deprecation more than I do. But I also know---I know this---that self-deprecation can be used as a tool for apologizing to the world for being oneself. If I make fun of myself enough, if I say what I fear they are thinking, it will ease everyone’s (including my) discomfort with those feelings which oppose or conflict with theirs.

There is a place between taking yourself too seriously and not taking yourself seriously enough; it’s worth looking for, I think. You will probably see me--- on this blog---making fun of myself for going to therapy. (That’s my job.) But this doesn’t mean that I haven’t benefited deeply from going.

I don’t want to feel ashamed of that, still sometimes I do. I can know in my head that this is not rational, but it is so ingrained in me through personal and cultural experience, that it takes real effort to feel otherwise. I don't think everyone's position is as steadfast as my father's but I do think most people could cop to some level of bias, myself included. I have questioned my every motive. I have felt shame and embarrassment. I have felt weak.

But I also know that my therapist was the first person who was finally able to impress upon me the importance of physical health and the connection between mind and body. (Oh my god, remind me to tell you about all this amazing stuff I’ve been reading about omega-3 fatty acids. Perhaps I’ll include it an essay on how I am going to drug Dan in order to get him to eat fish. That’s what she said…sorry.)

I know that what I have learned and experienced in her office has gotten me further down a spiritual path than I might have gone on my own and that the pleasures, benefits and satisfying difficulty of this---it’s like a good workout, this spiritual shit--- have already enriched my life. (She would laugh at the irony of this---she’s an atheist.)

And I also know that she was the only person to whom I could speak openly while I was enduring the pain of a miscarriage.

I am not ashamed that therapy has helped me. I don’t want you to be, either. And I don’t want anyone who is struggling, or needs an outlet, or is simply seeking, adjusting or organizing life’s files, to feel shame either.

That is why lying about it, omitting it from the story of my current life, does not sit right with me regardless of my privacy. (If you’re keeping score, I would be feeling shame for going to therapy, shame for lying about it and then a third helping for not standing up for my beliefs. See why I go?)

So I wish I would have been honest with my parents and a couple of other siblings to whom I have told half-truths when they have happened to ask where I am or where I’m going on a Wednesday at 11:30. (Though the jig is up now, right?)

My dad is entitled to his opinion. (I might feel similarly had my experience been his. I had a thing against dentists for years after being the recipient of an ass-pinching from one when I was in high school.) But I am also entitled to mine and when I am not honest, when I withhold (and we’re not talking little white lies of meals deemed “delicious” when they are not), I feel like I am not stepping up to it. Not stepping up to who I am. I once was a kid who never shied away from fighting for what I thought was right. (Later I chastised myself for never shying away from a fight in general---forgetting that I usually had good reason.) I want to be that kind of adult. Maybe if my dad knew I was in therapy he would think twice about casting it off. Maybe he might become more open-minded about the whole thing. Or maybe he wouldn’t. At least my integrity would be intact.

Strangely enough, I just had a conversation with someone about all this the other day at 11:30am. (We actually never begin at 11:30 because God, in all her divine and bad-ass wonder, gifted me with a therapist who runs later in life than I do. As a result I have never been late to an appointment---can you imagine? I did miss one altogether though because apparently every Wednesday is too complex a schedule for me to follow. And God really knows what She’s doing because it has also been a positive experience for me to see an accomplished, professional woman who is good at her job but who just happens to run late. It doesn't make her a bad person or lazy or incompetent---all thoughts I have had about myself when running late---it just means time management is not her thing. The flip side: she seems utterly capable of staying in the moment.)

I was talking about how there have been a couple of incidents lately where people have said things that I was offended by and rather than saying something, anything, I just let the moment pass silently. I don’t feel good about it. I have been telling myself that the reason I didn’t engage---and haven’t been engaging for some time---is to avoid confrontation; an act of self-preservation. But the fact is, I think my silence served to do the opposite. I am a little less myself every time I withhold the truth or an opinion for the sake of peace or for my own or others’ comfort. I would not be looking for a fight by respecting my own values as much as I respect anyone else’s.

So I need to try harder to not shy away from what’s hard in conversation.

More importantly, I need to do this with my writing. (That’s my job, too.)

And that brings us to this week’s book status. I’m not liking calling it a “book.” It’s not a novel and I don’t think it’s a memoir but book seems so vague and boring and stern. It sounds dusty. Plus, it’s not a book yet. At this point it’s just hopeful, precocious spew. Hence the new name of the segment:

Melliterary Spew

As I got going this week, I kept coming back to this theme of honesty. The work is nonfiction and it’s personal; more personal than this blog has been so far (and that includes the spray tanning entry). The stuff I want to write, that which feels right, is that which is hard to share (should I ever choose to do so instead of just playing a writer on this blog).

Writing from this place feels the most natural. It’s what comes out when I put my pen on the paper or my finger on the keys. I guess it’s the story I want to tell. But, it’s a very different thing to have it be the story that you---friends, family---read. It goes back to that business of what makes other people comfortable, which is an impossible place from which to write if the work is going to be at all genuine.

I don’t know how to be myself, to tell the truth, without telling the whole truth. I struggle with finding the line between being honest and being private; where that line “should” be.

“Should is not a good word to use when making decisions,” my therapist said to me about all this.

She also said that what one is willing to say or not say, share or not share, is personal and the line is different for everyone. I shouldn’t look at yours or his or hers to see where mine is.

For me, there is a nagging voice that tells me that not only is my integrity tied to my honesty, but my creativity is, too. God didn’t make me a science fiction writer or a poet; all I know how to do is write about what I’ve lived and seen and thought (and thought I saw and live to see). Hopefully we’ll have a few laughs together. But it’s not all going to be funny and I want to do that together, too.

You may see me differently. You may judge me. You may not. That’s up to you, though. I can’t be in charge of your reaction. (At least that’s what my therapist tells me.)

It’s a risk. I’m scared. (So hard to write those words.)

“Those who don’t try, never look foolish.”- Wicked soundtrack

Of course, as I’ve mentioned, this blog (this entry is particular) is an exercise in overcoming these fears. There are many entries on here that I felt I “shouldn’t” post. A voice tells me that I “shouldn’t” be telling you about my therapist or even mentioning my miscarriage. It feels like I am oversharing, disclosing too much. It feels wrong, like I should know better, like I should be reprimanded.

Shame.

But it’s the truth. Wouldn’t I rather you know the real me than some false version born out of fear?

I’m tempted to make a joke here; something about narcissism; something to discount everything I’ve written. But I’m going to make a choice to take myself seriously for this one moment. I don’t think I’m a narcissist no matter how many times I’ve called myself that. Thinking that I know better, that out of some misguided sense of honor I should act differently---that fosters much more of a preoccupation with self than simply being who I am.

Writing about my life---with the hope of connecting (as my favorite writers do) but also because, let's be honest, I enjoy doing it---is just how I was made. For better or for worse, writing is also sometimes how I give. Whether it be a card, or a profile of a retiring teacher (my favorite pieces to do when I worked at the newspaper), or even something on this blog, it’s what I have to offer. (I’d paint you a picture if I could.)

There was a time (a couple of weeks ago and probably two weeks from now) when I would have given myself shit for thinking this way.

“Oh, how noble of you,” I would have thought. “You think you’re such a great writer, that it’s a ‘gift you bestow.’”

“But I didn’t say that. I’m not bestowing anything.”

“That’s what you meant.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Being a writer is self-indulgent. You’re selfish.”

And then, utilizing the teachings of my therapist I would then tell the mean voice, “Fuck you. You’re a liar.”

(I swear to God, this is what she told me to say. It’s a match made in therapy heaven. I’m a trucker in there but wouldn’t you know she dropped the first C-bomb.)

I told her how I was thinking about writing about all this, knowing it will be read by those I love (including my dad).

“I’ll let you know if I come out about us,” I said.

Will I wish I didn’t tell? Maybe. Probably. But I usually regret everything I post on here the next day. I lived from that place for a long time. Don’t jump, don’t say anything, don’t risk anything because you’ll regret it later. You could miss your whole life doing that. You could miss your whole self.