My Dirty Little Secret

Yesterday, as I was completing my morning routine and checking Twitter, I came across a re-tweeted New York Times article that really intrigued me. I thought it'd be a good idea to share its content with you.

The article was re-tweeted by a journalism professor of mine, with the description - "I love this writing exercise. Will employ in some class in the future." I instantly clicked the link, thinking maybe I could get a head start on an idea for an assignment that may soon be coming my way.

The article, which is VERY worth reading, highlights journalism professor Susan Shapiro and the first piece she assigns her journalism students. The task? "Write three pages confessing you’re most humiliating secret." Shapiro justifies the assignment by explaining that learning to write with humility allows you let a reader in - which is arguably what they want.

"The first piece you write that your family hates means you found your voice, I warn my classes. If you want to be popular with your parents and siblings, try cookbooks," says Shapiro.

For some reason, my heart started beating super fast (probably too much coffee) and I spent the entire morning in a daze ... thinking. What would be my most humiliating secret? What would be something I could write about, that my family wouldn't approve of? The fact that I think my dad works too much? Or that my mom deserves to have the word "WORRIER" tattooed on her forehead? I don't know if I'd be comfortable going into detail about that, would it even be worth it?

All morning I picked my brain ... what is something humiliating that has happened to me ... that I've kept a secret ... that would be worth sharing?

While I don't think I'm ready to share what I believe is my most humiliating secret (someday), I kept reverting back to something that happened when I was in first grade. It was when I told what I believe was my first big "lie."

My class was working on short stories we had written. We had to draw pictures to match short sentences we had struggled to string together, on pages our teacher had printed for us. A few pages in, I wasn't happy with my drawings. I had colored too sloppily, the pictures didn't look good enough, and I had literally colored outside of lines that I had personally drawn. I was unhappy with the book and it made me anxious. I needed a re-do. I needed my teacher to print me a new one.

So, I hid my book behind my little crate and went up to my teacher to say my book was MISSING and that I needed a new one. The entire class launched into a search to, "help Emily find her book." I "searched" around my crate, making sure no one went too close to it. To my pleasure, the book was never found. My teacher was forced to print me a new book and I got to start over.

Although completely unaware at the time (hello, I was eight), I can now look bag on this occurrence and highlight it as the first time I set a standard for myself. A standard of having to be perfect. An unattainable standard. It was the first time I told myself that what I was doing wasn't acceptable and that I needed to "start over." My eight-year-old drawings weren't good enough - a statement I introduced to myself and imprinted on my consciousness.

Throughout middle school and high school I did whatever I could to meet perfection. I swore I knew what she looked like, how she spoke, how she thought what she ate, etc. I'd rewrite papers that I deemed too sloppily handwritten, I'd organize my room into the perfect setting before falling asleep, I'd check over the entire house to make sure nothing was out of place, I'd even delete other people's Facebook posts if they didn't "look perfect" to me.

It's funny, how now I actually despise perfection. In fact, I really try to stay away from her. I've slowly but surely learned that no one is perfect and better yet, there is no need to be.

Well this story is probably screaming OCD to you; I don't doubt that I have OCD to some degree. I see a therapist often (she rocks!) and am very open to talking about it. Let's just say "stopping" OCD is much easier said than done.

So why do I find this story to be my most humiliating? It was also the first time I didn't accept myself or my work for what it was. Why is that humiliating? At eight-years old my biggest worry should have been what I had packed for lunch - not whether or not my drawings were the greatest thing a first grader has ever created or which art gallery they were going to be shipped off to. 

Shapiro wrote that in writing a personal narrative you need to, "trash yourself more than anyone else." She explained that readers need to see you’re desperate; they need to connect to your struggle and then feel your success as you felt it come.

I don't know if I've been successful in being imperfect, or if that is even possible. I'm definitely more easy-going than I once was; yet I still find there are times I'll re-do work or lay awake in bed thinking something needs to be "fixed" before I can sleep. I am getting there.

Humiliation isn't necessarily embarrassment. You could argue that looking back I am embarrassed by the lie I told in first grade and the work I put my classmates and teachers through as they searched to find my forever hidden book. Instead, I don't think humiliation can be recognized in the moment. Looking back, I think humiliation comes when you do something you later wish you hadn't.

Let's just say this girl would love to see how differently things could have turned out, had I just left my eight-year-old drawings.

So ... what would be your humiliating secret? Would you share it?