I’m a sharer. When I say that, I don’t mean like, “Hey, here’s a bite of my sandwich;” more like, I tend to share personal details a little too readily with an slight dose of hyperbole. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood. My sister’s blog is titled, “And Then Some” for Heaven’s sake.

It’s worst when something bad happens to me. It can be mildly bad or seriously bad or just barely bad, but somewhere a spigot opens up and I just launch into my personal problems. Certainly I try to add a dash of humor and self-deprecation in there for the benefit of my woe-begotten “hearer,” but the fact is, I’ve shared something that cannot be unshared.

I’d love to be one of those stoic people. I long to be a silent sufferer. I genuinely worry about becoming a burden to my friends. But literally, I can’t keep my own blasted secrets (don’t worry, yours are safe).  I make vows in the morning not to tell people about how sick I got over the weekend, or what beloved personal item I lost, or what kind of personal setback I experienced.

But inevitably, I run into people and about six seconds into the interchange, the pressure to divulge begins to coagulate. And then I start to lose focus in the conversation because I am wondering whether or not the secret (which is lodged in a drawer like Tinkerbell) will be able to pick the lock of my brain and fly from my mouth.

Without fail, Tinkerbell flies free. Pressure builds, builds, builds, mounts and…. BLURT! So quickly, I’ve shared too much.

I feel like this image best captures how I feel. See the bulging eyes? That’s the pressure I feel!

Take today for instance. I saw precisely four different people that are close to me. And could I contain my semi-ridiculous personal problem with any of them? Even after all my personal vowing?

After every conversation I shared today, I left doing something like this: