I gave it up. It seemed silly, childish, and immature. All that whining.
I went into therapy around 30. The counselor suggested journaling, but all I could do was chronicle my days.
I gave it up. It seemed silly, childish, and immature. All that minutiae.
I forged ahead trying to live my life the way everyone told me I should.
I broke.
I started writing again. It was the only way to get the thoughts and pictures in my head to calm down. It seemed silly, childish, and immature. But this time I couldn't give it up. I needed to "tell" someone.
I vomited out all the horror of abuse, betrayal, distrust, and shame.
Eventually I started to share what I'd written.
I started a blog.
I wanted to share my past, my present, and my dreams for my future.
I questioned my reasons. I wrote anyway.
I dream of writing a book that is cohesive -- that helps other people with similar struggles.
I wonder about my motivations. Are they pure?
I wonder if I am setting myself up as a survivor. Am I survivor?
I worry about questions asked that I can't answer.
I worry about memoirs that are discounted after the fact.
I worry about someone calling me a liar, just like they said would happen.
But I keep writing. Telling the story. Sharing the pain. Hoping for the best.
I'm not sure if those are goals, ambitions, aspirations. I just know it's what keeps me moving forward. Because maybe it wasn't ever silly, childish, and immature. Maybe it is just my life. And that makes it worth telling.
linking up at Red Writing Hood
