Breaking free is hard. I’ve looked back on my blog posts over the years, which are all over the place of course, and I’ve visited my old writing accounts on various forums. Stopping short of digging out the plastic bins in storage filled with notebooks and journals, little scraps of paper, article and magazine clippings dating back as far as the 1980s — I just wanted to refresh myself on where I’ve been and where I may be going.
Countless times I’ve proclaimed to be washed anew. Fresh-eyed. Open-hearted. Ready to forge ahead at my goals full steam only to fizzle out and wind up right back in the same rut — fighting the same emotions, the same fears, the same memories.
There was a time in my life when writing was my only true constant. It brought me relief and was an outlet for every thought and emotion. Fictionalized accounts that allowed me to play out all the worst parts of my inner turmoil without any ill effects on anyone. It was cathartic and powerful and freeing. Even when scribbling or typing through tear-filled eyes, it was beautiful and healing. When it was done, it got put to the side and I could go on with life.
That all changed the day a family member showed up in family court, one of my journals in hand, with pages bookmarked and notes inserted. These stories, scenes, thoughts and such, which I had written, were shared without my permission and for the purpose of discrediting me. My very own words — my trusted and loved method of healing myself, the one and only way I had always been able to keep carrying on — betrayed me.
Try as I may, I can’t seem to break free. I can’t seem to find my way back despite desperately wanting — no, needing — it.
I’m forcing myself to squeeze out at least 500 words a day. They don’t all make it here, obviously. I have files all over the place, many password-protected, which is hilarious in light of whatever the mood when I typed them must have dictated the password because I can’t for the life of me get back into them! I’ve since stopped that habit, at least.
I just get so afraid. Writing (for me at least, maybe for some of you as well?) is just a very personal thing. Like, I want to get these things out and share them BUT…
but the world isn’t a nice place. but people are easily offended. but things could be misinterpreted. but someone might think ill of me. but I can’t allow them to betray me again.
Only I can’t feel whole without them.
I just want to forgive them. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. It just was what it was. I miss them and mourn them. My precious, beautiful, healing words. They mean no one any harm.
They simply want to help me break free.
Love & Light