What do you do when you want to write, but you are afraid of what those words reveal? Or what can happen if those revealing words are read by others? Does it come down to that old saying “know your audience”? Perhaps. But I can see writing for one audience, then having others read when they weren’t invited to the performance….that has happened to me. And the results have severely curtailed my writing. I am working to overcome that fear. So perhaps writing about the fear will get it out there, make it less frightening, less powerful in its hold over me.
For years I was quite faithful in writing in my journal every night. I recorded the small things….”Went to the grocery store”…and the big things…”I’M ENGAGED!!!!!” The mundane. The weird. The exciting. The secrets. The joys. It was all there. Going back through those journals even now touches me deeply. I am once again connected to who I was, to those everyday tasks, those monumental moments.
Then along came the big bad lawsuit. If you have never been sued, I can’t say I would recommend it. It was one of the worst experiences of my life, one I hope to never repeat. I will say that I came out on the other side of the trauma much stronger in many ways. For those things I am thankful. In other ways, I am more cautious and fearful. For the side of me that became jaded and guarded, I am sad. And what in the world does a lawsuit have to do with a journal? My private thoughts, my recordings of the mundane, the minute, the memorable….my journals were subpoenaed by the plaintiff. Horrifying invasion. To recall that time still sends chills up my spine, down my arms, and paralyzes my fingers as they long to write and record once again. The fact that someone could demand to see what I had written in a very private format, to not only see it but to examine and tear apart what I had documented primarily only to myself was almost unbearable. To cut to the end of the story, we had a great attorney who did not allow this horrific act to take place. But the damage had been done. I stopped writing. Even today, I mourn all the memories that are lost because I never wrote them down.
Fast forward nine or ten years. I took a big step. I began writing again. I wrote almost daily in an online diary. I absolutely LOVED this outlet. It was anonymous, so I felt free to write. I wrote about my life, my ups and downs. I found a community of like minded souls. We read each other’s entries. We commiserated. We compared. We connected. I even took the step outside my comfort zone and attended a convention for writers in this arena. I loved my audience. I loved voicing my thoughts. I loved the feedback. And frankly, I was good at it. I could tell a great story, spinning it with humor or heartache, dependent on my mood. I was proud of what I produced.
Then came the crash. Someone I love decided to read the online entries at a time when I was working through some very difficult issues in my own mind. I had used the forum to vent, to wail, to moan, to scream and cuss and get it all out. This person I love was hurt, choosing to personalize my struggles and becoming incredibly angry. The fallout was awful. The damage was serious. The words exchanged cannot ever be taken back, but we have moved past it. I don’t know that I will ever be forgiven, nor the incident forgotten. But we have moved on.
In the aftermath, though, I was once again unable to write. My return to writing in this format is still frightening to me. I find myself censoring myself with almost every word, every thought. I hope to find freedom once again as I write. I know I have a voice. I have things that I want to say. I have things to say that I want to be heard. I will find my voice. I will find my voice. I will.
