“That pretty much sums up my family’s fuck-you Thanksgiving.”

I’ll save you the juicy bits of that family secret. My coworkers were not so lucky.

(I know – a TMI blog scant on actual TMI. There’s no doubt details will be shared – stay tuned for my convo with my oversharing ADHD sister, the tinder in the Fuck You Thanksgiving. But this isn’t about the stories themselves. After all, my oversharing is triggered in face to face situations with unwilling passengers on a one way ticket to awkward destinations. So why are we here? Us oversharers are story tellers, I’ll get to the point at some eventually.)

Like most unsolicited overshares, this one no doubt started with an innocuous conversation, very much appropriate in the workplace, that somehow led to me pontificating full speed ahead into my daily spiral of verbal shame.  

I’m Brittany. I’m 41 years old, and I know better.

I understand social niceties. I understand boundaries. I understand the basic level of tact required to function in society without making people quietly reconsider sitting beside me at lunch.

And yet, day after day, I find myself revealing things that most people wouldn’t dare share with a best friend, let alone a coworker, grocery store clerk, mom in the school drop off line.

“I bought a Tushy. Nothing feels better on a hot day than a cold spritz down below.”

(That little tidbit of uneasy intel was prompted by a casual conversation about the weather. No topic is safe.)

Does that mom go out of her way to avoid me now? Yes. Is that how it usually goes? Surprisingly, no. 

Most of the time, the other person doesn’t seem to mind. They’ll laugh, which is a very nice thing to do but also, it feeds the beast. “Oh, you like that one? Wait till you hear this…”

Sometimes you’ll find a fellow over sharer (more on this later) and they’ll join right in. Before you know it, you’ve just shared birthing stories in line at Costco.

“9.4 pounds”

“Forceps”

“Stitches”

“Have a great day!”

(This convo was prompted by her seeing a monstrous watermelon in my cart, so it kind of makes sense.)

There’s a real thrill to this. To elicit a laugh, bring joy, make a mundane moment into something magical. And yet, without fail, a moment will strike that makes you regret every word. For me, its usually when the conversation is winding down, when a horrified voice starts shrieking in my head “What is wrong with me? Why am I telling you this?”

I’ve thought about this a lot. I like to make people laugh. I like to make it clear I’m kind of a mess and you can be comfortable with me because nothing you can say can be weirder than what I’ve already told you. It’s the easiest way to relate a shared experience or connect with someone that’s gone through or is going through something you have too. And, truth be told, sometimes I’m just that asshole that can’t read the room and turns the story back to myself because I fancy myself a storyteller but went into corporate communications so need a different outlet to tell the kind of stories that bring me joy.

Here’s what I can’t figure out. Why every overshare haunts me for minutes, hours, days, years to follow. Why does doing something, that yes is embarrassing, but has brought me closer to more than I’ve lost because of it, bring me so much shame? And because of that, why can’t I stop doing it? And assuming I can’t – how do I get over it and share shame free?

Let’s dig in!