A snippet of conversation overheard:
“I can’t think of anything worse than finding a picture posted of me on the Internet without my permission,” he said.
“I don’t actually remember if he asked before he posted,” she replied. She didn’t sound perturbed by it. “He may have asked, I don’t remember…..I mean, I don’t like when someone does that either but….whatever.” She shrugged.
He shook his head disapprovingly.
The exchange got me ruminating about my own actions. I surmised that she was surprised to find a photo or video posted of herself online, and to him the idea of that happening, of personal stuff being out in the world that he didn’t put there, is an anathema. He wants his privacy. He doesn’t want anonymous people knowing or seeing his business.
Clearly, I don’t share that feeling. This blog offers plenty of evidence of that. I know better than to post a picture of a person without getting the okay beforehand, but I been known to make mistakes. Overhearing that conversation, I could imagine the young man saying to me, “You’re nuts for putting all that stuff out there!”
I know the exchange had nothing to do with me, but it hit a sore spot. I feel some measure of self-consciousness about what I do.
I don’t share everything. I draw boundaries. I make choices about memories or experiences I want to write about. I also want to be careful that I am sharing my story, not someone else’s. Most of the time when I write something that involves another person in a significant way, especially if it can be seen negatively, I show it to them first. I have edited pieces in response and sometimes I censor myself. I have invited folks to share their perspective on the blog, too.
I want to share my experiences. It is a way of feeling less alone. When a reader responds that they identify with what I have shared, it is validating. And, even more importantly, writing about painful feelings, takes away of some of their power. Things that live in my mind as embarrassing or irritating are made less so when I put the feeling in words and set them free.
Why do I feel the need to justify that I do this? There must be a part of me that questions it, wonders if it reflects weakness or a failure to properly value my own privacy.
This question of privacy, though, goes well beyond social media etiquette. For instance, people make different choices in regard to sharing information about their health (I’m not referring to what is shared on Facebook, I mean even in everyday conversation). Some are an open book and might share more than you ever wanted to know. At the other extreme, some don’t want to be asked how they are feeling. As we get older, health becomes more and more of a focus. It can be hard to avoid discussing it. I think I fall somewhere in the middle. I want to be open with my husband and my children. If it is something that can be inherited, like high blood pressure or diabetes, then I think I owe it to them to share the information. If it is something that is affecting the quality of my life or my mood, it seems only fair to clue them in. I’m not big on putting on a happy face – at least not for those closest to me. I also tend to think secrets have a way of blowing up.
There shouldn’t be shame attached to illness either– it shouldn’t be seen as a sign of weakness or a personal failing. We’ve lived too long with people hiding mental illness or addictions, in particular. Some illnesses carry judgment – if you are a smoker and get lung cancer, or if you are obese and are diagnosed with Type II diabetes, you can feel like you deserve it and/or that others deem it as a just punishment. None of that is helpful. If it were simple, no one would smoke or be obese.
By the same token, I understand not wanting to feel like your condition is tattooed on your forehead. We don’t want to be defined by an illness. It is a matter of personal choice if you want these things widely known. There is no right way to be about this. We need to respect each other’s wishes. What makes it complicated is if we assume that others share our standards.
For me, the health issue is particularly vexing. My husband is a doctor. I have been with him from the beginning of his training and while I am not confused about the fact that I did not earn a medical degree, I think it is fair to say I have more knowledge than your average citizen. If someone speaks to Gary as a patient, he doesn’t share it with me. If it involves our children, he will. Our kids understand that (if they didn’t, now they do). I find, for whatever reason, some people do confide in me about these things; others don’t. It can be surprising who falls into each category.
I will admit to having pretty strong problem-solving skills. When my dad was sick, it made me feel better if I came up with something that helped him to be more comfortable. When Dad was getting chemo, he and Mom were staying in an extended-stay hotel. Dad was spending a lot of time in bed, aside from being tired, the chairs in the sitting area in their suite weren’t that comfortable. I found a place that rented furniture and we had a reclining chair delivered for the duration of his stay. It was a win-win. I still feel good about that. If Mom hadn’t shared her concern about Dad being in bed so much, I couldn’t have helped find a solution.
Combine the familiarity with medical issues with a propensity to want to fix things, or help people, and I can probably overstep. Or maybe I don’t. Geez, my brain is a confusing place to live.
I started this essay by recounting an overheard conversation that led me to question myself. Now, having written about it, processed my thoughts, and putting it on the blog, it isn’t eating at me anymore. I won’t go so far as to say I am at peace, but I am not ruminating. I’ll call that a victory.