Elsewhere, several people told me that I was very brave for talking about my personal life. It's good to be thought of as brave.
Like a fair number of other horror writers I've met, I was raised in a fear-based household. My father was an unending source of doom and gloom and seemed to be a lot more interested in making me afraid of the world than he was in making me feel like I could competently make my way in it. (He's a conservative with more firearms than friends and a conspiracy theory for every occasion; I'm sure nobody is surprised at this revelation.)
I was terrified of driving because I'd been fed a steady diet of car crash stories; I learned to drive anyway.
I was terrified to move away from my hometown for graduate school; I did it anyway.
I was terrified of standing up in front of people to speak; I learned how to do it anyway, and now I'm actually pretty decent at it.
I was terrified of cockroaches, and ... wait, no, I don't have a motivational point about roaches.
This morning, I was terrified to go to the dentist and get a crown; I did it anyway.
I grind through and do things I'm afraid of every day. That's how I am; I do not want my own anxiety to stop my life cold. I don't know if that makes me brave, or a high-functioning coward. (Spoiler: I'll take high-functioning.)
Posting about my life feels more necessary than brave, given recent events. I keep hearing people say that understanding stops hate; I'm willing to believe that. But if those of us who feel like outsiders don't talk about our outsiderness, nobody who doesn't share our experiences is likely to understand it, will they?