Excerpt from this article:
Ask yourself who discloses, to whom and why. It’s simple stuff. If you’re late for work, you explain why the bus was stuck in traffic; your boss doesn’t explain to you. Women always give away too much information. As Lena Dunham has said, oversharing is complex and gendered and society trivialises female experience.
Talking about our “issues” obviously helps others. Sometimes. So does understanding your own history. The idealised nuclear family life that drove so many to depression and valium is what gave rise in the 60s to books like Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, which documented female misery. Each generation creates its own self-loathing. Now it’s binging and purging and self-harm. Young women reinvent the wheels that continue to flatten them.
It’s hard. We record every moment: everything is a hall of mirrors in which the self is reflected back at all times. Does any one of us have the necessary self-esteem? No. We are all flawed, but we are good enough. Do I need all the details of your dysfunction? No. Spare me the confessions and the 500 selfies.
For out there is a world controlled by those who disclose very little about their inner lives. That’s how we live.