People will talk… won’t they?

I need to make a confession about something that has been weighing heavily on my heart and mind.  Publishing my first blog post that revealed some of my innermost secrets and skeletons hidden deep inside my mental closet was a big deal for me… a REALLY BIG deal.

I know I could have started my journey of sharing my story with guarded and reserved words – perhaps that would have been a safe and less painful path to take.  Instead, I ripped my bandages off quickly – no picking at the edges and wincing with each tiny pull.  I laid out the ugly, painful truth for the world to read… no tiptoeing or dancing around the brutal truth.

Before posting, “my unveiling…”, I critiqued, read, and re-read the words that uncovered secrets from my past.  Each time I read over my post, I found myself feeling extremely proud of the words I had written, proud of myself, and of the newfound strength I had discovered.  I was proud of myself, but I was also incredibly nervous about exposing MY STORY to the world.  With time and much needed support, my nerves began to calm.  It was then that I realized by writing MY STORY, I had gained courage to take ownership and understand what I had experienced, what I had lived through.  I now held the power to break free from the chains of my past, and was hopeful that my words, my unveiling, would help others find love and strength within themselves.

Once my post was published and shared for family, friends, and strangers to read, I felt thrilled about the swarm of people commenting, sharing, texting, and calling me.  I waited and waited for crowds of awe-inspiring supporters.  I had just unmasked myself, broken free from agonizing shackles that had shredded the person I once was.  I was finally strong and unafraid of my truth.  I was baffled when my inbox was not overflowing with messages of support and encouragement, void of uplifting admiration.  Yes, I did receive heartfelt words and love from wonderful people, and I am beyond grateful for their praise.  I was incredibly proud of myself, but was anyone else?  Was I alone in this journey of exposing MY STORY, alone in healing from the wounds and scars formed from my past?

I felt deflated, and I questioned if writing, being a “blogger”, was right for me.  I had a deep passion and desire to write.  The emotions of reliving blistering horror to begin healing brought forth eagerness to help others, to be a voice for someone, anyone that felt powerless and alone.  During one of my many and much needed therapy sessions, I brought these thoughts and feelings to the table.  When I stopped talking, my therapist asked me a question that felt irrelevant at first.  She asked, “Was it hard for YOU to read the words that described YOUR past when YOU first wrote them?”  My answer, well, yes, it was incredibly hard to read my own words.  My brain had been in survival mode for years trying to protect me, keeping the shocking and upsetting memories of my past dormant in my mind.  The process of these stagnant memories becoming mobile, drowning my mind with horrifying memories was unbelievably challenging.  Thankfully, writing became a vessel, a safe place to move forward and sort through such disturbing memories. 

We continued to talk and process my doubt about writing and feelings that plagued me.  Finally, the “AH-HA” moment fell in my lap.  The things that I write about are not pleasant, magical experiences.  They are HARD READS full of fear, pain, scars and much more.  Talking about my experiences with others would not be easy to fit into a conversation over coffee.  Nothing about what I have written has been warm and cozy… it is raw, startling, and forward.   My writing probably seemed a bit off the grid for some people.  I had concealed the truth about my past for so long, and I’m sure reading my posts might have been a shock to those not in my close circle, leaving people with a loss for words.  Honestly, I did not think about how people would feel when they read my story for the first time.  I was embedded in a place of feeling extremely proud of myself, and I did not recognize how uneasy and uncomfortable people might feel reading MY STORY.  I had kept my past a secret, and had masked my truth, my story, from almost everyone I knew.  I had to put my mask down to save myself, to move forward without the heaviness of my past.  Writing MY STORY, writing about what I had endured, helped me do just that.  I am now able to talk about my past without feeling broken, without questioning or worrying about if sharing my story was the right decision for me.  I also now know that not everyone is able to easily digest what I have to say, and that is okay.  I no longer feel the yearning for a crowd of supporters, or overflowing messages cheering me on… I have found that those things within myself. 

To the people that are reading along, thank you.  Thank you for standing with me, for sharing my story for me, and for learning along with me that everyone has a story to tell and an audience applauding for them.