I am not who you think I am
I’m struggling to find the [b]old woman who started this newsletter
When I wake each morning, I look out at my neighbor’s green grass, as bright as a baseball diamond, and beyond to the gently rippled waters of the Deer Isle Thorofare. In the distance, a handful of islands poke up, their rounded silhouettes of pine and spruce trees, rimmed by granite rock, as crisp as a 3D collage. This is the view from my bedroom—one that I am so grateful for. This is what I’ve called home for the past decade.
But there’s more going on in my life right now than this perfect postcard view, so I want to pull the curtain, just for a moment, just to be more honest with you.
I’ve been thinking about my real life vs. how I show up on the page, and I’ve come to a conclusion: I am not who you think I am—at least not all the time, and especially not lately. This is, probably, true for most writers. To connect with readers, a writer creates a consistent, relatable persona1: friend, confidante, mentor, teacher, commentator, reporter, etc. Online and on Substack I play a character who is a bit [b]old, who is bravely reporting back as she navigates the sometimes rocky land of the old, and who has something useful and honest to share with you about her experiences. I hope you think of her as both a confidante and a commentator. Judging from the many thoughtful comments you all are leaving, it seems you are comfortable with this persona. It even seems like you trust her.
But this [b]old woman is not who I am right now. No, in my real life I’ve been stumbling through my days, unfocused, confused, and searching for clarity about who I am and what I’m knowledgeable about and what I even have to offer family, friends and the wider world. I’ve offered hints here and here, but I haven’t wanted to come right out and tell you about this current, real-life version of Debbie. Like many writers (or most people?), I have a fear of being seen too clearly. I don’t like Debbie at all when she gets like this; sometimes I even loathe her. She can be irritable and unpleasant (just ask her husband) and she is always very negative. (I’m telling you about her in a third person “voice” to create some distance. This way it’s not me whining about myself, which feels too embarrassing… I can hear my mother’s voice reminding me that admitting publicly to depression is shameful and unseemly.)
Even as I long to get back to the [b]old woman writer you all trust, I’m trying to be gentle. I don’t know about you, but if this down and depressed Debbie were my friend, I’d tell her not to be ashamed. She should hang on and be patient, and gradually, step-by-step, things will get better2 and she will climb out of her depression, and become a lot [b]older again.
I don’t know how to be one Debbie
As I laid back in the chair at the dentist office, the hygienist asked cheerfully, “So how has your summer been?” I clamped my jaw shut for a moment; I was not going to tell her about the shifting ground of my life, now that both my parents have died, or about the difficulty of re-calibrating relationships with my siblings, or about how my picture postcard life feels foggy. So I grunted, “Oh, just fine,” as she dove into my mouth with her silver instrument.
That’s one version of real-life Debbie. Here on the page, this is my attempt at another, more intimate version of her that I am only just now, after one year on Substack, willing to share with you. I can’t tell you everything because the process of discovering and then revealing real-life Debbie is ongoing; it’s imperfect. At the same time, I don’t want to sever your connection with my [b]old woman persona (I rather like her myself and hope to feel like her again very soon). Maybe the point is that we, all of us, are multiple selves, and maybe it’s okay to show up on the page as any of them. And maybe it’s okay that I have limits to how honest I want to be about who I am.
Still, I have so many questions, even if I don’t have answers: Is my goal to create one congruent voice? Is that even possible?
And in my fog and sadness, a more existential question: With all the problems and anxieties in the world right now (the upcoming Presidential election, the war in Ukraine, the fighting in Gaza), does this even matter? Are my struggles even worth writing about?
Thank you for sticking around while I explore these questions and expose this version of myself. As always, being a little more honest makes me realize that things aren’t really so bad; my early morning view is already brighter.
Can you relate?
Do you ever feel like the version of you people have come to expect, enjoy, and rely upon is no longer there?
As a reader, do you feel you know the real-life person behind your favorite Substack authors?
If you’re a writer, how do you approach the expectation that you’ll write in one consistent voice?
The idea of creating a persona or character is spelled out in a marvelous essay by writing teacher Phillip Lopate: “On the Necessity of Turning Oneself Into a Character.”
One step: real-life Debbie signed up for a Zoom consultation to adjust her depression meds, thinking the session would be a waste of time. The psychiatric nurse practitioner turned out to be surprisingly knowledgeable and helpful; she offered a prescription for a new medication, which Debbie is trying.
But this IS bold of you, Debbie. Really honest. I hope being more open about how you've been feeling (third person, first person, whatever works!) it will help you recalibrate.
I feel more like myself since starting writing on Substack, because I'd been "quiet" for so long beforehand. I'd tapped into the "admin" side of my brain for so long (out of necessity, but also because I hadn't found the "nudge" I needed), that I'd lost sight of the creative side.
I feel reconnected with my younger self now, who wrote and very much wanted to write. And now I have so much more to look back on.
There's the dilemma of how much to share, of course. And whose story you're telling. How much of it is your own, how much other people's. But I'm enjoying grappling with that.
Well done for being bold, Debbie!
I trust you now, Debbie. You don’t have to “get back to” any former persona to keep this reader with you. I too have a history of depression and a tendency toward melancholy. When the news is grim, as it so often is these days, I flounder. I remind myself that life is not a march of progress. In times of despair, I hold fast to the memory of joy and trust in its return. It’s not easy but it helps. I am writing about this now. Hold on, Debbie. I’m here to share my driftwood.