“Enough about me. What do you think about me?”

Does that sound familiar? You know the type of self-absorbed person I’m talking about. And I really try not to be her.

That’s precisely why I didn’t write about myself for a very long time–I was afraid of being self-indulgent. So instead I published compilations of other people’s self-indulgent essays.

And then I realized that the articles and books that I most enjoyed–that helped me tremendously in my spiritual journey and recovery–were memoirs and personal essays. I didn’t care that they were self-indulgent. In fact, I liked that they were self-absorbed. Because it freed me to be self-reflective, as well, and try to be a more loving person. People like Anne Lamott and Kathleen Norris and Erma Bombeck have instructed me with the lessons from their own lives.

But writing about yourself is a terrible business to be in (much like being a stripper) if you are the sensitive type, like I am.

When you publish your diary online, you invite cheap shots. I know that. I prepare for them every morning when I stand in front of the mirror and say, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggoneit, people like me!”

And you can be sure to contract all kinds of venom–even well-intentioned venom–when you write about topics like depression and mental illness that are so widely misunderstood in our culture.

I know that too.

But it doesn’t keep me from getting hurt. Because even (especially) when I dish out my opinionated and raw stuff, I make myself vulnerable to readers. I don’t know how I could write about my recovery honestly (I repeat, honestly) without removing my clothes and exposing all sorts of moles and cellulite patches to the public.

So I’m trying to follow fellow blogger Gretchen Rubin’s commandment and be Gretchen, I mean, Therese. (Some days I’d definitely rather be Gretchen.)

Even if that means it’s all about me.