Charissa Brim. And by we, he certainly means me. Regardless of how long I will be away, I always manage to overpack, anticipating every possible scenario I could but never will encounter during my time away. My little aqua roller suitcase is so misleading. But the minute I get to my destination, I shape-shift into a decidedly less enchanting version of Mary Poppins. In search of something simple like deodorant, I pull from my suitcase a never-ending slew of absurd and irrelevant items that I have allegedly deemed essential.
So in what feels like the blink of an eye, I have detonated the entire contents of my bag around the whole room, where I will hop-scotch around them until the dreaded moment when I am forced to pack it all up.
The dread I feel when reflecting on my haphazard piles of overshared information is enough to swear me to secrecy. In a sincere attempt to connect with others, oversharing can surprise us with a cruel plot twist where instead of intimacy, we encounter isolation.
Oversharing can be a trauma response. And it feels terrible. Our desire to be known can often prompt us to share vulnerably. After all, vulnerability connects us and deepens our relationships as we relate to our shared human experiences. But sometimes trauma can make the line between vulnerability and oversharing feel impossibly unclear, and always a little late in making itself known. Sometimes, trauma can make the line between vulnerability and oversharing feel impossibly unclear, and always a little late in making itself known.
If you have experienced trauma, details that feel uncomfortable to others may feel strangely normal or ho-hum to you. Diluting the intensity of certain experiences is a gift our mind gives us so we can get our bearings before unpacking the reality of our pain.
