Friday, Apr. 11, 2003 | 8:30 PM

God there's so much I leave out of this diary now-- not to say that what I write here isn't true, but once upon a time, my d-land entries were an immediate reflection of what I felt at any given moment, super-ego be damned. As life marched on, aversion therapy has stopped me from talking about certain subjects-- it's like the Hollywood Hayes office has embedded itself in my brain.

In a way, it's good. It makes things so much easier-- not to have to face the email onslaught of YOU ARE SUCH A BITCH messages. But on the other hand it completely circumvents the entire raison d'etre of this journal. I used to write about my immediate feelings-- if I was say, sad or hurt or pissed and just got it all down, and then later in a subsequent entry discussed what I was feeling at the time-- analyzed it and disected it and played out the process of getting from one point to another-- it was healing you know? It was therapy.

Now, I go from point a to point z and I don't record any of it, because I can't. Because too many people who know me read this, and some of them become hurt or saddened or feel like their privacy has been violated. Which is understandable, I suppose.

Personally, I have never felt that way about anything that was written about me on this forum (besides downright rude shit having to do with my appearence or something equally derogatory, or entries that were anonymously posted to my guestbook, denying me the context in which they were written)-- I mean, we are who we are, you know-- good and bad. I just want honesty, as long as it's presented courageously and not in a purely insulting manner (i.e. that chic is fat.) I want real reactions. I want to know how people think and feel. I've always embraced my shitty points. I have in the past portrayed the best and the very worst of myself in this space. And now I can't if it has anything to do with anyone I know in real life. I just can't use this space anymore to discuss really what I'm feeling if it might upset someone else.

Of course, this rule is self imposed, albeit self imposed due to the tears and horror of other people that I can't stand to upset.

It's funny, I was saying on Jonee's notes page-- the more euphemistic I've gotten in my online prose, and the less obvious, the more voracious the complaints from my peanut gallery. I really and truly don't want to hurt or embarress or upset others, but it's so fucking frustrating to have this self imposed code of what can and cannot be discussed. And sadly, I guess it's necessary. Random people read this, and if I write something about my frustrations with someone I know, the random people think that so and so is a bastard, which isn't at all the impression I want to put out to the world. I don't want to use this forum as a blunt object to hurt others. And yet I feel like I can't really talk about anything if it has to do with certain subjects. Some of that is very much my fault, because in the past I may have abused this forum to lash out in a way that wasn't appropriate. But I don't think I've done that in a long long time. It's kind of ironic really, that as I've become more self restricting, I've gotten more and more shit.

I can't even talk about good memories from my past. Because I don't own the copyright on them anymore, and I'm so fucking concerned about how other people will perceive my intent. And that irritates the shit out of me. Because really, this is all for me. Yes it's public, because I want feedback, I want the audience participation. But it's not a bully pulpit, it's theatre. I feel as though I don't have a right to discuss my own experiences because my writings might make someone else feel bad. And part of me says, Fuck that. I'm not trying to hurt or exploit anyone else-- I'm really not. Especially not now. Don't I have a right to my own life? I remember a certain short story that was written by someone for a college workshop in which I was a (carefully disguised) character-- a love interest to the protagonist. And I was described as being unattracively overweight. I remember being referred to as "The kind of girl who shopped at Layne Bryant, if you know what I mean-- and I figured I'd done my duty to girls like that."

I was a little stung yes, but I also appreciated the honesty and the pathos with which I was described. It never would have occurred to me to protest the story, even though half the workshop class most likely knew who I was.

And now I check my dland stats sometimes and groan over whom I know is reading this, and the judgements they make, even though I don't judge anyone here. I only talk about my feelings.

I'm not comparing myself in an artistic sense, but should Sylvia Plath have not discussed life with Ted Hughes in her poetry because it might hurt his feelings? Is it my job to be the P.R. person for other people? It shouldn't be, but it is. It has to be, because other people have adopted that code-- the privacy code, the I'm not going to say anything that might hurt you code, and so I feel obligated to do the same. And yes, I know I don't have to do that, but I do have to do that when it comes down to it. Jesus, even when I was writing pseudonymously, those words were found and exploited and voyeuristically pursued. I don't wanna be Philip Roth. And I don't want others to be at the mercy of my poison pen. Although honestly, it's always puzzled me, the extreme reaction people have had to this site-- as though I'm some kind of almighty god that can dictate and inform the opinions of others.

Some of the downright most personal stuff, the Fuck You stuff that was written about me on D-land has been the most informative to me. I think it's about intent-- if the intent is to belittle someone, to portray them in a one dimensional way, to lessen their humanity by speaking about them derogatorilly, hitting below the belt, then that's one thing. But if you're just talking about your feelings and experience, only good can be done.

But apparently it can't. I guess I should be flattered that people think I am so all powerful that I can influence the belief system of others. Like I'm an evil wizard that can cast a spell over the populace to make them hate and despise someone else. That my experience somehow dictates the ebb and flow of popular opinion. Personally, I find that absurd. It would never even occurr to me to think that because someone else wrote something about me-- say, me being a drunken foolish brat, screaming insults and behaving like a spoilt child-- that suddenly everyone in the world would want to stop hanging out with me. If people wanted to stop hanging out with me, it would be because I was a jerk-- not because of something someone wrote on diaryland.

I just think that Jane Austen politeness and protection is silly. You wanna say that I behaved like a fucking retard the night I fell into my own tub and you had to put me to bed? Or that I was a jugemental creep on an occasion when you needed me to be supportive-- say it! As long as it's real. We don't all think rosy silver lined thoughts about each other all the time.

This diary has become the authoriuzed biography diary. It's become the fandom diary where only the good, kind, neat, narrowly stitched sentiments concerning interpersonal relationships can be discussed. And what is terribly sad about that really, is that through this self censorship, what is essential and real has been lost.

The best biographies are the ones where you actually get a sense of who someone was as a human being. All of it-- the daisies and the infected puss, the hearts and flowers and the fire and brimstone. We are, all of us angels and devils, saints and satanists. I don't want to be protected, and I hate protecting anyone else. I hate the obligation. I want to love you and hate you and observe you as I really see you.

But this blog has turned into Life Magaine where it's all milkshakes and flowers. And you know, sometimes IT IS all milkshakes and flowers. But reading over my recent diary entries twenty years from now, I won't know the real Milkshakes from the pladough ones, and I won't know the actual nature derived rose bushes from the fake, silken buds that never live and never die, but stoically serve to cover up the rot beneath them, their petals never wilting, their fragrance always the same-- like Woolworth Aisles and knock off cologne, and faint praise and condescention.

Is that what it's all about? Making each other look good? Welcome to American Idol, Diaryland Style!

And you know, since we're on the subject, what really hurts me-- the only thing that really hurts me? Disappearing. Not existing. Being a non-entity, as though I never happened. I would've been thrilled (and was) to have something derogatory written about me, as long as it was real. As long as it existed. Disappearing from the landscape of someone's life-- someone whom I loved, being written out of the nice well groomed Life Magazine Article-- that's what hurts. I'd rather someone call me a cunt and get on with it than act like I never happened. Ironic isn't it?