hiiiiii

I never ever thought I’d make a substack because a) seemed hard, b) lotta work, c) have low self-esteem and struggle to believe anyone cares what I have to say, and d) fear that this will just become one of the many other blogs i have started and then abandoned in my life, crystalizing a sort of online graveyard of self-expression I’ve curated for myself. xanga, livejournal, tumblr, blogspot, wordpress—you name it baby, i have tried and failed at it!! and then Substack is like, for smart people…who write essays…about smart things…deep thoughts..valuable information….like?? doesn’t sound like me <3 Not quite “my tempo.” But here I am!! desecrating the newsletter form by freewriting my minimally edited musings!

Why? For what? For “whom”? Not sure! But I do know that I’m drawn to this. Writing to be read, with the hopes of capturing my self authentically. I think it has to do with this thing I can’t shake, this teen angst-y hang up that nobody understands me. I hate that it comes up so frequently, that when I am in the midst of intense feelings—of sadness or rage, both of which I feel quite often—and I peel back the onion layers to find out what’s really going on, I am left with this hollow and lonely feeling that no one truly gets me. I am not seen for the whole spectrum of who I am. Then this other voice comes in that’s like GROW UP!! Nobody understands anybody! How can I expect anyone to truly understand me, especially when they only have access to what I show or share with them, and especially because no one else can experience my internal world, which is where so much of that “me” that I want understood shows up?

But I think a part of me holds this hope that I can write my way into being fully understood. Like if you read my fiction and really sit with it, you will know something about what I care about, and what I worry about, and what I desire. And you will see me for someone who thinks deeply and has experienced pain, and maybe that will make you like me or relate to me or find me interesting. That’s not the only reason I write, but it’s part of it. It is semi-humiliating, and also a desperate attempt at control. To want to be seen, but only in the way that I want you to see me.

my first confession to Dear Diary is this: about a year ago, i made a secret anonymous tiktok account for posting online diary entries. i made six posts and i had two followers, but hundreds of people watched and some gave that coveted double tap. It felt liberating and exciting to share the writing. It was not attached to my name, and no one I knew was reading it so it didn’t have to be good. It could be just totally raw and honest, and it fulfilled this emotional exhibitionism thing I have. It was fun to lay myself bare and fantasize about how my thoughts would be perceived.

Here is one of the entries:

i miss the online diary. i miss the public confessional. internet as priest. faceless but listening. i know i've sinned. tell me i'm ok.

i want to have a space for writing sad things. maybe not always sad but probably usually. i want to write about i, me me me. i don't want to see who saw.

maybe i'm just doing this to trick myself into thinking i have the kind of thoughts that anyone else would want to read.

i haven't gone to confession in a long time. i don't think it helped. i think it fucked me up.

but being emo online. that's real healing. that's church.

A user named Rin commented: your thoughts ate (zero likes). Then, a user named Hatsune Miku commented: ur not ok (one like).

So this brings us back to now. Dear Diary by LPB. Will this online diary force you into understanding me? Will you think my thoughts ate? Or will you think I’m not ok?

My purpose for creating this substack is occurring to me this very moment: i’m writing this with the goal of not caring either way.

<3

---

my short story, Emo Night, was recently published by Michigan Quarterly Review: Mixtape and you can read it here :) keep an eye on my instagram for details about a Zoom reading later this month!