Fleabag & Me

Graphic by Mikayla Alpert

If I had a time machine, one of the first things I would do is to go find a six-year-old me who picked up a pen and notebook for the first time to write a short story about a cat and dog and throw it across the floor. Maybe even rip up the pages for good measure. Don’t get me wrong. I love writing, so much that my gratitude gets stuck in my chest, leaving me with no mechanism to express this adoration. Even trying to articulate it in writing remains a grave challenge for myself – I often feel this is what I try to accomplish with every essay I pen. I continue to struggle with the vulnerability writing places onto my shoulders, weighing down on me until my knees buckle and my head spins. Because that’s what it can do. But it can also make me feel light and proud and warm, as it lends itself to a unique role of sharing bits and pieces of myself to speak to others when I find difficulty using my voice to do so. 

Nonetheless, with everything I write, it often feels as though I’m ripping my heart out of my body and bleeding straight onto pages for strangers and friends alike to digest (somehow). As someone hesitant to even share what their favorite color is with their loved ones, this was a large pill for me to swallow. Although writing is my greatest passion it is, without a doubt, my greatest enemy. 

I remember the first time I watched Fleabag and was struck by pure humanity woven into the script and characters. It was shockingly and embarrassingly beautiful, as it depicted the (oftentimes uncomfortably) life of a young woman in the modern age, which is not idyllic but rather messy. I also remember the first time I finished Fleabag because it led to my lying in the middle of my childhood bedroom’s floor for a solid hour full of contemplation and regret. Of course, there are certain elements of the show that incited my commendation, not limited to its consistent fourth wall breakage (and the hot priest doesn’t hurt either). Yet its creator, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, has reached a level of vulnerability in which it feels as though she unzips her skin to place the deepest parts of her brain on display. It was one of the first times I experienced extreme awe over a piece of media (in addition to grave creative jealousy). The show is also effective in its jaded tone, which remains relevant to a traumatized generation. The dry humor is reflective of the hardships we have faced; the main character struggles to find slivers of optimism, an experience you all are no stranger to I’m sure. 

In between watching the show, and then the following several rewatch-binging streaks I went on, I fell deeper into its world; my admiration became profound. Despite its inherent cynicism within its characters, there is an inherent optimistic quality that shines through as a result of the vulnerability. Because there’s beauty in the fact that human beings can strip themselves down to mere words on pages and then onto a screen as a vehicle to assuage loneliness or any other feelings of discontent. 

Fleabag has become increasingly relevant in regards to the shift in feminism seen in recent media. The notion of having a “Fleabag Era” is representative of pent-up expression trapped within a woman scared of taking up too much space and her, promptly, becoming erratic and passionate. As a result of recent female characters, such as ones penned by Sally Rooney or Ottessa Moshfegh, this extreme sense of empowerment that promotes a sense of fatalism, something is inspiring in the ideal a woman is so intuitive within herself that she can turn her pain into art for others to digest and consider. There’s romanticization surrounding spontaneous actions that, can to a great extent occasionally, lead to intense consequences. 

After a lot of thought, I think I’ve got my finger on why Fleabag really shifted my perspective on life and my creative endeavors itself (although fair warning, these are half-baked thoughts, so tread with caution). There’s something starkly pleasant that a writer can reach the point in their life where they feel comfortable enough to share slices from their life to the general public. There’s something motivating, as a writer, in the notion that I might one day not be afraid of taking up more space than I absolutely need to, that I might one day be able to exercise my voice to the full auditory extent it pertains, that I might one day be able to scroop the gratitude stuck in my chest and serve it to others (strangers or friends, alike). There’s something lovely about the idea that perhaps I will be able to create meaningful art while retaining dry humor, meshing together play and sincerity into one art form.

It’s possible that every time I put words to a page or scenes to a screen, I’ll feel my stomach sink to the bottom of my shoes and feel my heart seize at the thought of people perceiving stories I have created. Or, perhaps, one day I too will be able to unzip my skin and shove my bleeding heart into strangers’ hands because maybe they’ll be able to sort out my thoughts when I’m unable to. Fleabag breaks the fourth wall and this is me paying homage to it, addressing you, the audience, directly: life’s too absurd to not express the thoughts in your head or the love trapped in your heart. This show, with what started as an innocent show to binge, has shifted my perspective on the world around me. It continues to inspire me to scare myself constantly with my writing — no matter how many stomach aches I face. So, sure… my favorite color is purple. What’s yours?