Another Way To Die in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

So there I was at at Sarah’s mother’s with all of these adults that have known me since I was 4. Once I knocked over Sarah’s 1-year-old nephew, I stayed in the corner pretty much by myself. I didn’t drink more than a margarita and a beer. I was tired and exhausted from having to answer question after question about my private life.

When people have known you your whole life, they feel entitled to some kind of explanation as to why you are at where you are at. I’ve had to explain things my whole life and I’m tired of having to justify everything.

You’re not in LA? Didn’t you like it there? Still not married? That’s legal now! What church are you going to? Don’t you believe Christ died for your sins? How is your grandmother? Oh no, how long ago?

I can’t handle these questions and I’m trying to figure out why.

Cameron told my mother about his girlfriend, but he fudged some of the facts. She seemed a little hurt that he was so secretive about his life, but I realized it was one of the few pieces of advice I’ve given him that he actually followed. Even the details were little vague for him. The ironic thing is, he’s kind of the well-liked child. I mean, he’s got a mouth on him but I think my parents recognize that that’s just a product of being 21.

My mother has a habit of not understanding boundaries. When my journal was published by my uncle and I was outed to everyone, I suddenly had a strong desire for privacy. I became paranoid about people knowing about my life. I don’t know why but I still carry this paranoia around with me.

What does it mean?

What is the root of this fear? There has to be some reason behind this compulsive need to shield my life from others. When I did stand-up, I had a clause in my contract that allowed me to cancel a show up to five minutes before if I recognized someone in the audience. I refused to perform in front of someone I knew because I felt it was too personal. I didn’t tell anyone that I did stand-up until after I retired.

The choice to remain private ended up being correct because I went with my mother to a function some months later and complete strangers were coming up to me and asking me to tell them some of my jokes.

Maybe it’s because I care too much what people think of me or because I’m tired of having to justify my choices. I have no idea what I’m doing. But I need to do something. I have to find some way out of this paranoia and fear. It rots away my life and keeps me isolated from everyone, it’s just another way to die.