I have something to say, but I don’t really know how to go about it. It’s annoying, considering that I’ve written plenty on the subject in the past week. I just don’t know how to go about it now.
Bri decided to start her own blog, citing the same purpose as my own. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I suppose that’s true, even if it is an insultingly sub-par imitation.
The majority of this blog has been fairly restrained in terms of me acting on my feelings. No, I was not always nice, but I didn’t want to be nice about things that weren’t. No one spared my feelings in their actions, and I didn’t spare theirs in my writing. I do not take the events that I wrote about lightly, and I didn’t want anyone else to, either.
Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.
I did my best to never let my emotions get the best of me, despite their constant attempts to. Writing is the way I deal with anything and everything. My emotions can be overpowering. I don’t know what they are and I don’t know what to do with them. So I write what I’m thinking. It allows me to create some sense of order. The more I write, the more it soothes me, and the better I am at piecing together why I’m so emotional and how to move away from that.
Simply put, it’s something that I need to do.
Naturally, when I found out what Bri was doing, I was livid. I knew she fancied herself a writer, but this thing was mine. Her attempt to steal the one thing that defines me isn’t something that I could just laugh off. If she had just decided to start a blog with her own intentions, that would have been one thing. I would have scoffed, rolled my eyes. But for her to copy me? Bitch, please.
So I read what she wrote. Of course I did. My curiosity will very likely be the death of me. I didn’t know what to expect. At first, I actually wasn’t very bothered. Her writing was fine and she hadn’t said much of anything. Of course, the more I read, the angrier I got. No, not angry. Offended. It had nothing to do with what she’d written about me, actually. That part is minimal, and more or less true, though she was not-so-subtly nasty about it.
No, what I’m offended by is her audacity to pass off her biased, manipulated version of events as any sort of reality. I’m offended that she’s using my blog as a foothold for her own. I’m offended that there’s any possibility that she believes that what she is doing is in any way the same as what I’ve done here.
I could point out every inaccuracy in her writing. I could point out that she never mentioned how she and I were actually friends, that this guy she was pursuing was not only her ex’s best friend, but MY ex, who I was still in love with. That about a week before she slept with him, he and I had slept together again. How there was simply no way everything just drunkenly “came pouring out” to Ryan because she had first texted Josh that she was “going to tell Ryan everything.”
I could point out all of those things. Oh wait, I just did.
I know that it doesn’t really matter. No one really cares. Anyone who is bothering with her blog will choose to believe what she writes. I could point out the inaccuracies, but to what end? For a time it felt like my life’s mission was to make sure that everyone knew what an ax-wound she really is. However, that would entail spending the rest of my life with her, if only mentally, and I can think of nothing less appealing. Anyone who wants to know what actually happened during the time that our blogs overlap can scroll way back here and do so.
You’ve got to sell your heart, wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald in a letter to a friend and aspiring writer. Do not come lightly to the blank page is what Stephen King wrote in his memoir. In a letter to a class of high schoolers, Kurt Vonnegut encouraged them to practice any art… to practice becoming… to make your soul grow.
When I first got the idea of creating a blog, I was not so eager to bleed my soul on to the page. It was personal. I had been stupid. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t seen what was right in front of me. Everybody else had. Looking back, it was just so obvious. I was also ashamed of how I had treated some people. The way I’d felt about Cal in the end and my ridiculous, catty behavior with Bri.
I had been an idiot
Sharing that was difficult. I had two choices. Spin a version of events that left out all the ugly bits. Create a dramatic story in which I was this two-dimensional character who had made mistakes and excuses, where I had merely been a pawn in a game played by others.
Or I could tell the truth, as far as I could see it. I could take responsibility for the bad, for things that up until writing this blog, I still hadn’t completely accepted. I could write about my thoughts of cheating on my first boyfriend, my disregard for a friend’s feelings, what it was like to be helplessly, hopelessly, pathetically in love, about how I completely lost respect for myself in favor of those tragic feelings.
I felt brave. I wanted to share what I’d gone through, guts and gore and all.
Bri went with the former option. I chose the latter. Really though, she can write whatever she wants about the events that transpired. She can be completely honest or she can lie. Of course, her manipulation of those events does irritate me, but I can’t change it, and I accept that. So really, it’s not such a big deal.
When I started reading her blog, I was actually looking forward to something more. I was expecting to find sympathy for her through her words, to be able to relate to some sort of inner turmoil. All that I had wanted since May was to find any sort of good in her, to find some common ground, to have some understanding of why she was so vicious.
I suppose that would require some sort of self-awareness on her part. That is, as I know all too well, one vital characteristic that she desperately lacks. Why I thought she might have suddenly discovered it, I don’t know. And so I was disappointed, yet again.
It seems unfair of me to judge her so harshly. Who am I to say that she isn’t bleeding her soul like I’ve done, or isn’t at least trying to? Well, I can only assume that fictionalizing the events that happened to make herself look better would somewhat hinder her ability to express her true feelings about everything that she did, and what others did to her.
I’m not one to judge skill, and I don’t pretend to be any sort of literary authority figure. I still have my opinions, though. I am not criticizing her writing. I am not criticizing her right to write whatever she wants. What I am criticizing is her attempt to pass off her fictionalized version of events as the truth. In doing so, she has insulted the craft of writing and has therefore insulted me.
I’m sure that was her intention, though, to some extent. To upset me with her blog the same way mine upset her. And of course, it looks like I’m falling into her manipulative trap, but I know fully well what I’m doing. Time and time again, I overlooked the terrible things she said and did in favor of not stooping to her level. While I do feel morally superior, ignoring her existence hasn’t changed the fact that unfortunately, she’s still around.
Let it go? Eh, sure, of course I will, all in good time. She has made a point of making that rather difficult for me, though. Every time I think she’s finally done, she pops her head back in with some sort of something. Before this blog it was an email that she sent me a couple of weeks ago, with no purpose that I could see. Before that it was the obnoxious comments she was leaving on this blog under a fake name. Even before that, it was her apology for writing such unforgiving things about me in response to this blog. But really, the one that I’d thought was the end of it was the night we met up, the night we were friendly, the night everything actually seemed nice and good again.
Apparently, and most disappointingly, that seems to be the farthest thing from possible.
For those who became curious while reading this, here’s a link to her blog. Knock yourself out.