Friday, January 1, 2016

20 Minutes of My Day

Today I write.
Tomorrow I write.
Every day I write.
It is in my DNA.

I started outlining my life story years ago, and tonight I worked on piecing some of it together.  It is scary to think of putting my life experiences on paper for someone else to read.


I do this every day.
I write on Facebook.
I write in my various blogs.
I write in personal journals.

But I know that I edit myself.  I know that there are pieces of me that I don't allow out for public consumption.  Those pieces are painful and scary and I am ashamed of them or I know that they will make people feel sorry for me, or pity me, or be mad at me for sharing "family secrets".


Family secrets NEED to see the light of day.
They have been hidden in the dark for FAR TOO LONG.
As soon as they are revealed they no longer hold the power that they have when they are still hidden.
So, I WILL share the family secrets.
I will dust off the skeletons, and bring them out, and let the public judge them as they will.

Because I know that I NEED them to be revealed.
I need the freedom that comes from not having to carry the burden of keeping them hidden any longer.
I need to be free to say "this is what made me who I am."
I need to be allowed to be me without having to come up with half-way plausible explanations that don't reveal the secrets.

And yet it IS scary to write about these skeletons.
What if people deem them "not worthy"?
What if they are thought to be "normal"?
Will that invalidate my pain?
Will it make me less of a person?  Less unique? More broken?

For me, writing is healing.
Writing is cathartic.
By writing, I pull back the scabs, and allow the putrid, rotting pieces of me to be cleaned out, and start the healing process.
So writing is always messy.
There is nastiness that is revealed, and it has to be treated, taken care of, in some way.
There are unexpected complications that mean the healing takes longer than originally thought.
And yet, it IS healing, a little at a time.

So, for now I write for ME.
I write to dislodge the scabs.
I write to allow clean air into the dark places.
I write to allow those skeletons to escape.

Someday I will write that book that is inside, begging to be released.
I will write of my experiences as an abuse survivor.
I will write of my life as a child on a farm.
I will write of my coming-of-age at a Bible college.
I will write of the struggles as a young wife and mother.
I will write of my growth in the shadow of my military spouse.
I will write of my finding my voice in grad school.

When I finally have gotten all of the pieces of ME on paper, then the other books that are there will be able to be released.  The ones meant to help others are still percolating, marinating, becoming, while they are helping me.

The catharsis is beginning.
And so, I write.

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