I’m not going to apologize for not living my life the way others might think I should. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my behavior, that’s not why I write here. I choose to share my singular experiences with the world because inevitably I feel bolstered by the love and support given to me.
When people show compassion and caring it reveals to me a side of the world I don’t always believe is there. I am the most cruel, nasty, hateful person to myself in some of my weaker moments.
I know all the things I have done that have brought me to a terrible situation – all of them – and I am not seeking similar voices in the ether; that’d be stupid. I am hoping to find the voices that sound nothing like mine. However, inevitably, in my darkest, most vulnerable moments of sharing someone will tell me I should have known better.
Yes, thank you. That was likely the plot of the post that you read: that I absolutely should have known better.
I have been blogging for the better part of a decade now and by anyone’s standards I am seasoned at this. I don’t react to criticism like I did in 2011 or 2013, likewise nor does praise hit me in quite the same way. I don’t weigh either more or less than the other. I will admit that I roll my eyes a lot more, but my sense of self-worth remains the same.
What I find most rewarding in commenters’ thoughts and revelations aren’t what they say about me, but the insights they afford me into them. The kinder words might reveal a hard-fought acceptance of our faulty natures and I’ll feel a softness towards the writer, the critical missives belie the more skeptical outlooks on the universe and deeply felt wounds and I feel empathy and understanding for those folks, and everything else in between illustrates even more variables in each of you that I am in awe to witness.
Over the years I’ve been called nothing short of an attention seeking whore and been lauded as a self-actualized being. I am probably both and neither, to be honest. I also suspect I am what you see in the mirror each morning, groggy and puffy from your own illicit or peaceful night in bed.
Lately I find myself in an interesting position to be observing myself writing this blog and maintaining it like a many-leafed plant. I pluck and pinch things here and there, water it a little, sometimes neglect it. I’m not entirely sure if it has the same effect on me as it once did, though the idea that at least one person on this planet might feel less alone because there’s another lost soul out there who knows how they’re feeling pulls me back again and again.
I have received many thousands of comments over the years and what I have learned is we all have a TN in our life, we all have regrettable nights and body and self-esteem issues, we all yearn and we all want to belong and to experience love. I don’t mind if you think I’m an asshole, nor do I necessarily care if you think I’m the best, though of course that is quite nice. I just like knowing I’m not alone and that there are people who are with me on this journey to self-expression and love and honesty.
I have also learned that we want others to do the things we never did or to avoid the things we wished we had. Many years ago in my About Me – before I could imagine being Hy this long – I wrote:
“Every thought and feeling I have is bared here and you will likely become frustrated with me as I go right when you really want me to go left. But I’m not an avatar. I’m just me.”
I have never lied to you here; you know everything you need to know that will still keep me and my life safe. The post I wrote the other day was devastatingly hard because I felt like I might be letting you all down – I’d sure as fuck let myself down – but then I remembered that if I hide from you I would essentially be hiding from myself. In an average day when the sun sets I am filled with loneliness. There’s no need to set the sun sooner on myself. And so I opened up and showed you my weak and twisted ugly side and instantly felt lighter and straighter.
It’s the magic of this fucking blog. It’s why I keep tending to it. Every single week for seven years. I might miss a Boobday or not write a post every week or not comment nearly as much as I would like, but I have never not been here. I am always here. How could I not be? Hy is me and I am her and I love that about myself.
I love that I have this rich life that I’m passionate and knowledgeable about. Friends from around the world whom I genuinely like and trust, a better, more solidly formed sense of self, and a new understanding of our human condition in general. Of course I also love to craft a story, to weave my words in ways my readers can float away from their own lives and join mine, which leads me to the next great thing about this blog: all of you.
You all, each and every one of you, mean a lot more to this internet stranger than you might realize. Just like I may touch your lives, you also touch mine. Even when you point out all my interminable flaws and mistakes.
And let’s be honest. I also like showing you my tits.
Thank you for the last incredible seven years, Internet Boyfriend. It’s officially my longest relationship ever and by far my best one yet.