Writing was a big part of my life and self expression for years. I started preteen and buried it in my late twenties. I not only quit I literally set fire to countless journals and composition books. I did this for a couple of reasons. One, I was certain I would not live long and I did not want anyone knowing my dark thoughts. Two, I was invaded.
My ex husband read my journals like a parent does to diaries. He also broke the password on my laptop and read everything. The day I discovered this I ripped up my recent journals into pieces in front of him. I wrote a little after my divorce but that feeling of needing to protect myself was just too strong. I feel like the only truth that is in me comes out when I write. No one was going to steal that from me again. The thoughts of an eminent and early death served as a huge writers block. Now, I have this crazy idea of sharing. That is so it cannot be stolen.
I have had a few people in my life encourage me to get back to it. Therapists, a friend here or there that knew what it meant to me. I just could not bring myself to it, even after buying a nice journal. So what things am I going to tell about? I am going to write about my multiple pregnancy losses, my escape from fundamental christianity, what it looks like to live with bipolar, suicide, addiction, the efforts I have taken in self destruction, the constant battle in my head, my grieving, and all that depressing shit.
We all have a story. We all have open wounds and healing scars. Call me morbid but I like hearing about the struggle and the pain. It makes me not feel so alone. It makes us human, it puts us all on the same level. We all bleed.
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