It is interesting what a life of its own this blog has taken on. I originally began writing here because my husband continually found my written journals in the house, read them, and then became very angry over the content. Anger is not something I handle well.
So here I began to write.
I have taken a few breaks here. Once because it became too hard to spell this shit out; it hurt too much. And another break because of some internal conflicts I had within myself. Those conflicts led me to this conclusion of honesty.
Writing from an honest place has been very freeing. Some of the secrets I have held close, I have shared here. Those held even closer, I have not. Yet. When I write I am writing from raw place. There is no order, rhyme or reason to my posts. It just is. I do not see that I am any sort of writer simply because I sensor and edit what I write very little. I write for myself; to purge the poison I feel inside.
I struggle with self-esteem; I have very little of it. I walk around thinking "if they only knew...", positive that "they" would hate me, despise me, be shocked or even disgusted by me. However, I have learned my lesson here and it is the opposite of what I believed I would learn. I have not had one hateful comment here or even a single hateful email. The things that horrified me the most, horrified me for the wrong reasons. I am not all that horrible. The kindness shown by others here is amazing to me. Perhaps it doesn't surprise the average person who believes that generally people are good. However, that has not been my life experience. But that is changing now.
The last surprise this blog has revealed is the help and awareness it provides. Like other survivors, I have asked "why" over and over and never received an answer. I still do not have a complete answer but I am beginning to believe that what I endured might possibly help another person. Selfishly, I cannot say that it makes it all worth it though.
So here I write. I have good days and I have bad days. Some words are what I think and wrestle with. Other words are spilling what has happened; previously unspeakable words. Writing is a way that we all communicate but there is a certain power in the spoken and audible word. I have been encouraged to read outloud what I write here. Verbalizing what I write scares me. But just as writing has been an exercise in freedom; my wish is that speaking these words will take the sting and power out of the tragic while giving life to what is good and hopeful.
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