Let me say something.
It’s been ages again since I’ve written, and I started out saying again that I don’t know why, but that isn’t true. I do know.
The minute I write a post, edit it, and then go to publish it, I’m hit with a powerful punch in the gut. It happens every time. “Why am I doing this? Why do I need to post this? Who cares?”
The deepest, most intense shame. And I know exactly where it comes from.
I can’t tell you how many times on this journey I have been told, “I love your writing.” “You make me feel sane.” “You should write a book.” “Please write another blog!” They are innumerable. Uncountable. It happens frequently, and I am always grateful. Honored. Humbled.
And yet, I CAN tell you exactly how many times I’ve been asked, “Why do you write such personal things?” “Can’t you just keep a journal instead?” “What makes you think you are good enough to do that?” and, “What are you trying to prove?” I can remember them powerfully and exquisitely and painfully. I remember who said them, and where. I remember how it made me feel. And I remember the deep, deep shame those comments elicited that continue to follow me to this day. It is reflected in my writing, and lack thereof. I feel it every time I am about to put something into the world.
I’m angry about it. I’ve had enough. I am no longer willing to participate in that shame. I quit. No matter what, those people don’t have the right to space in my mind, nor control over my actions. If they don’t like what I’m writing, they are free to NOT READ IT.
I’m writing this through tears, as I think I really didn’t know how heavily it had been weighing on me, nor how long I’ve let it ride.
I can’t promise I’m going to write more (because: life) but I CAN promise that shame wont be the reason that’s stopping me. If every person that put their thoughts and words and feelings out into the world listened to that shame, none of your favorite books would have ever been written.
The end.
