Do you ever Google yourself?
It’s not something I’ve ever thought about, but after watching The Social Dilemma a few weeks ago I decided to delete some of my social media accounts, which made me curious about everything that exists about me online. So I typed my own name into the search bar, resulting in tons of information about other people with my same (very generic) name. I mean, I had to really cyberstalk myself to find any information about me and not the other more famous Casey Janes, which is how I managed to unearth my old blog, the original Plain Plain Casey Jane.
My OG blog was made on a free version of WordPress and is entirely black and white, because that’s what I was into when I was nineteen. It’s also entirely devoted to posts about ex-boyfriends and break-ups and GOOD LORD is it angsty. I mean, the drama! The pain! The exaggeration! The words furiously typed through my tear-blurred eyes and published without a second thought, without considering what an older, wiser plain plain Casey Jane might think. See, this is why people tell you not to get tattoos, because years later you’ll regret them. Well I have four tattoos and no regrets, but when I resurfaced these posts my first thought was how the fuck do I delete this and why have I let it continue to exist for so long?
Growing increasingly desperate and manic, I spent an hour attempting to hack into my old WordPress account, to hack into my old college email address that the account is linked to, to reconfigure the google search results somehow, to burn down the entire internet, to change my name and move off the grid, because WHAT WILL PEOPLE THINK IF THEY SEE THIS?!?! THIS IS JUST NOT WHO I AM ANYMORE!!!
And then, I actually read it.
It is every bit as ridiculous as I originally thought. I mean, I was a mess. At nineteen, I had absolutely no idea who I was or what the world had in store for me. I thought I was going to marry a guy a met in high school. I thought I was going to live in North Carolina forever. I was a Republican, for God’s sake. I had lived primarily through books, Lifetime movies and reality TV. And yet, it was me (note: was). And some of the writing was good, and some of the thoughts were decent, and I could tell from reading it that I really cared, and was trying my best.
This is the problem with the internet cataloguing our every move, and with us letting it. We judge ourselves on what used to be forgettable. We remain haunted by the ghosts of our former selves for eternity. When I found this old blog, I felt ashamed. I thought, what if one day I publish a book and some critic finds this horrible online diary of mine and mocks me for it? Or if I run for public office and quotes from of my teenage misfortunes are used in a smear campaign against me? Or if I have a kid and they decide to google mom and see what she was like when she was their age and become disgusted by my general lack of togetherness? How will this be perceived, pinned in time with no additional context, without me here and now to explain?
But the thing is, I am here. I exist, as an entirely different person almost a decade later, still thinking and experiencing and writing. I have been that girl, and the woman I am now is built off of that girl. And I guess anyone who can’t let go of my nineteen year old self, anyone who uses the memory of who I once was as a weapon against who I am, or who I am going to be, can go ahead and try. Because I’ve already learned the lessons of that nineteen year old girl and moved on.
One of my favorite essays by Joan Didion states that, “…we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends…To free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself and finds no one at home.”
I sort of like that my still-imperfect 27-year-old self looks back on my cringe-worthy 19-year-old self with some embarrassment. Maybe it means I lived. Maybe it means I’m growing. I think we can all offer a little bit more of that perspective to ourselves and to the people around us.
I can’t be the new me without the old me. I won’t be tied to who I once was, but I won’t ignore her when she pops up from time to time either.
And so, if you’re curious, here’s the old me. I recommend pairing with a plastic cup of cheap white wine and some Bon Iver in the background. Please don’t judge me (also, some of this is legit fiction, as in 100% made up so really don’t even try to judge me).