Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.  Blah, Blah, Blah.  I despise gender generalizations, but like any generalization, there is usually some truth behind it. 

Take, for example, “compartmentalizing”.  I’ve known so many men over the years who are experts at packing their feelings into small boxes and shoving them deep down into their man caves.  I’ve known a few women who could do it, but not many.  I am not one of them.  In terms of compartmentalizing feelings, I am a proud failure.  Can’t do it; don’t want to. 

My husband’s an expert at it.  But this blog post is not about him. 

I seem to spend a lot of time with people who excel in repressing things, or asking me to do the same.  Even the men I’ve known who were good communicators could shut off unpleasant parts of their lives and continue on.  Sometimes those boxes would blow up - a little gunpowder in the mailbox, so to speak.  Usually, they didn’t.  This is how a few men I’ve known well have been able to date multiple women at the same time, all the while feeling love for each of them in their own way.  I’m sure some women can do that, but back in the day, those women were called sluts. 

I’ve been looking hard at myself.  I’m extremely (unhealthily) critical of myself.  I realize this.  Sometimes it is hard to pull yourself up from the bad feelings and force focus on the better things within yourself.  Most of the time, I can’t do it.  It’s a work in progress.  Occasionally I find something about myself that is perceived as a weakness or something worse; I am shocked to find that as I think about it, I am proud of the so-called failing. 

I am proud of my inability to not separate myself into small pieces.  If you are around me, you get the good, the bad, and a lot of the ugly.  I am an excellent friend and always have been.  I will put myself out there for the people I love and do just about anything I can; lately, though, it hasn’t been returned.  In some notable cases, I have been asked to ignore or forget some part of who I am in order for the greater good to survive.  Our marriage counselor actually told me life’s goal is to transcend the ego.  I’m not sure I want to transcend the ego. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.  While I like Mother Theresa, I’ve never wanted to be exactly like her.  Like most humans, I am flawed and inherently selfish.  I also am terrible - absolutely horrific - at hiding my feelings or pretending something is different than the way it is.

I wonder how much energy it takes people to wrap those pretty packages.  I wonder what the motivation to do so is.  I am frustrated with the shiny veneer of some of my friends.  Why bother?  Why even attempt to be good friends with someone if you are only going to show them the image you think they may want to see?  It’s exhausting to me to be around it; it has to be tiring to be the one doing it. 

I recently tweeted this question:  “Have any of you thought of closing your account?  If so, why?”  Funny that many people had thought of it.  A few had even done it, then come back under a different name so they could be full-on open without fear of discovery.  My reasons for considering closing mine are fairly simple.

I have met a ton of amazing people through Twitter.  I’ve been able to build business, form solid “real” relationships, and entertain myself on days when nothing could hold my interest.  There are also a lot of packaged and processed people there, like anywhere.  For me, I have a better crap detector when I meet someone face to face or see them interacting.  There is a lot of interaction on Twitter, if it’s done right - but very often people’s Twitter persona is so completely different.  It’s like playing dress-up on the interact. 

The same could be said about me, I suppose.  I’m probably much more likable behind 140 characters with a snarky sense of humor.  However, I have never been told I’m different than I appear online.  This is because I have no compartments, no barriers, and no walls.  This means I get hurt, and frequently.  Still, I keep on chugging.  I like this part of me.  In a body where many parts are disliked, even despised, I’ll take the parts I can live with any day.