I am an unreliable narrator. You really need to know that about me if you keep reading.
Years ago, I actually started a blog called “The Unreliable Narrator,” and I think if you Google me, that blog might still come up. But I love the literary technique of using “the unreliable narrator” as the first person voice in a story because as the author, you can hide so much in the character’s blindspots that your readers will eventually get to discover at the same time as your character.
But when I started my first blog, I believe I lacked the willingness (or perhaps the ability) to even acknowledge my biggest blindspots, and so my content came off preachy and kind of short-sighted. I at least knew something about what I wrote was “off,” so that’s why I never kept up with the blog.
But back then, I didn’t really know how to write authentically about myself, or how to invite people into a space where they could judge the honest me.
Nowadays, I’m aware of so much more — about myself, about the world, and about the topics that continually show up for me in this life. And even though I realize no one can eliminate all of their blindspots, I feel like I can sense my shadows more obviously now. And in this blog, I want to believe that I’m able to tell you things in my honest voice that were at one time completely covered in a layer of my very own brand of fiction.
Yet, I understand that I’m always on the edge of being emotionally betrayed by how my facts and my fiction from my past still tangle themselves around the Truth I’m sincerely trying to uncover while writing this blog.
So I need to confess something to you before I continue:
There is a strong fear inside of me that my truthful words have the power to harm others; and, so at times during this process of writing, I’ve admittedly spent a lot of mental energy finding the safest, most edifying way to help me carefully and respectfully cull my truth.
I don’t think I’ve ever outright lied to you in any of my entries… But I know that I’ve decided to shade or pad my true feelings at times. I guess I can’t figure out how to make this story all about me without exposing the dark and painful details of my shared life in the process.
But what I’m about to tell you now are my memories from a time in my life when the unreliable narrator in me was creating a complicated fiction story that I actually started to believe was real. Splitting my emotions between my real life, and my hopes for Eloise might have helped me cope at times, but it also nearly wrecked me.
