Anawnimiss is dead

I opened my neglected, timeworn blog half-expecting messages that go “where are you” and “hope you’re okay” and “I’m worried for you”. And when I found nothing, I didn’t really know what to do with the knowledge that nobody – not one person – cares if I’m suddenly gone.

It was hard to accept, but after a week of wallowing in self-pity I’ve realized what a jerk I have been all this while, disappearing again and again for months together without a word about where I’m going or why, or if and when I’ll be back.

Here’s the thing – I haven’t said anything because I didn’t know how to explain how I’ve been feeling lately. The illusion of the freedom my anonymity affords me has, over time, degenerated into a bitter, painful sense of isolation from the *real* world where other *real* people live.

Besides, would I choose anonymity if I were a man? I don’t think I would. Like Woolf said, through most of history, anonymous was a woman.

So I’m done with anonymity, and I’m done hiding.

Call me Priyanka, will you?

of stories

She seems confused. She talks about women, then talks about adventure. She’s seduced people, almost cheated on her boyfriend, been in a live-in relationship, by her own admission. What kind of person puts stuff like that on the internet? I don’t get personal blogging anyway. Why not just stick to a topic and blog about that? What does it matter whether you tell your story or not? Who cares?

She’s talking incessantly about me, without even knowing that she’s talking about me. To her I’m Anawnimiss, the ‘ridiculously shameless blogger’.

It was amusing at first, to listen to someone I know talk about my blog without realizing it’s mine. But then words started to sting. And yet I was quiet for the longest time, nodding my head, which is so unlike me.

I wanted to tell her that my story matters. Every story matters, because stories never belong to any one person. There are hundreds of people, women and men, just like me, with stories just like mine. They are traveling, dancing, getting married, having children, yearning for change, just like me. There are women who are just like me, looking for answers, looking for love, and for independence. There’s a common thread in all our stories that binds us all in a sort of fabric that keeps us warm.

Instead, I say: I don’t know, maybe sharing gives her strength.

Yeah right. What is she, Batman? Let her come out in the open and declare her real identity. Then I’ll see how much strength she really has to tell the truth.

Okay, she didn’t really say Batman, but you know what I mean.

But she’s right, you know. I really ought to come out in the open some day. And you know what, I’d like to see the look on her face when I do.

of names, claims, and a little defiance

Where did my name come from?

I chose it.

Traditionally, anyone in my family who was old and had command over a language could go around

of blown covers

No time today except to drop a quick note to document how he knows about me being anawnimiss. He was suspicious for a long time and I had no idea what gave me away at first but it was this post that confirmed his suspicion. Apparently I’ve told him I think he is a little like Howard Roark.

So much for anonymity!

Sure, I want to pour out my soul, want him to know everything. But I don’t ever want to talk about these things.

I want the transparency, but not the judgment.

That is why he’s not going to read my blog anymore. He promised.

of not knowing

What were you thinking?

I wasn’t. But then again, why must I think so much? It’s an anonymous blog for god’s sake!

Yes, it is, but only for now. Sooner or later someone will figure it out, and what then?

You pause. You don’t care. You really don’t. All you want to do is get things out of your system no matter how much grief the fiancé gives you about washing dirty laundry in public. Wasn’t that supposed to be the idea? Doing what makes you happy?