When I think about confession and autobiography, I will admit that I do not view the two terms synonymously. This is, naturally, due to the taint in which Catholicism has stained the term ‘confession’, far removing it from the general definition of autobiography. In fact, it is only after reading the first chapter of Saint Augustine’s Confessions that I can conflate the two, and that is solely due to the undeniably devout tone of Augustine.
Now, when I think about autobiographies, I imagine a book written to retell the events of an individual’s life, sometimes in chronological order, and normally authored by the individual whose life is being retold. Although, this is not always the case.
I will admit that I have not read very many autobiographies, maybe ten or maybe twenty; they are not my favorite genre of book. That said, the ones I have read were life changing in that of the hundreds of books I have read in my life, they are often the ones that have haunted and stayed with me the most.
Then again, I do usually only read autobiographies of women and girls, something that I make a point to do because theirs are the experiences and voices which are often erased in history.
In the vein of Saint Augustine’s Confessions, and the deeply personal act of bearing one soul in written form, I think if I were to pen an autobiography, it may resemble one of my favourites…that being Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen.
In it, Susanna recalls the abrupt halt her life had taken after a suicide attempt in the 1950s, in which she was institutionalized in a mental hospital and diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. Now, while I do not specifically have BPD, nor have I ever experienced the 1950s, I do relate to the rest. Much like Susanna writes in her book, I think there is a deeply self-deprecating tone one often takes when revealing one’s own confronted mental deficiencies.
Suffice it to say, I am a true believer (ha!) that self-deprecation is where freedom truly lies. It is in self-deprecation and brutal honesty with oneself that you are freed from the shackles of expectations placed upon you by others, and even by yourself in response to others, as well as your environment.
Expectations, even, which have been internalized through one’s own formative experiences; that is, experiences one collects throughout their formative years, such as childhood, adolescence, adulthood etc.
For example, self-sufficiency in a neglected childhood may demand that one continues to uphold a standard of perfection always to this day. Personally, however, if I were not reasonably self-deprecating, perhaps I would have succeeded with that suicide attempt a few years ago.
This is for two reasons: firstly, perfectionism itself would not allow me to fail; and second, the lack of self-deprecation would never have given me the grace to fail and then make something better of my life–because, of course, perfection is not a realistic standard to meet.
Funny enough, it is in self-deprecation that I circle back now to Confessions after all because confession is the very personal act of being honest about yourself and confronting a personal truth that you might be ashamed about…without trying to make it sound better than it is.
Self-deprecation allows me to laugh while I am being honest about whatever it is about myself that I’m not terribly thrilled about.
I think if I ever actually write an autobiography, I will strive to make it funny; it’s the least I can do while revealing the horrors for some stranger’s random perusal.
As the kids say nowadays, “The horrors persist, but so do I.”
–
Augustine, S. (2008). The confessions. Oxford Paperbacks.
ma guarda quante stelle nel cielo 