I’m happy to say that these particular words from Virginia Woolf are no longer true. But they struck a chord, because for the longest time it was true. I was stuck, stuck because I didn’t have the courage to write transparently.
So I just didn’t write, because I didn’t know how to present my thoughts. I’m not sure if it was because I was protecting myself or other people. I don’t have a problem with being honest, but to do so in relation to trauma often involves some finger pointing. I’m not really a fan of calling out others if they don’t have the opportunity to respond, with their perspective. So I had to learn to write in a way which allowed me to tell my truth in the most authentic way, a way in which it was about my story, my feelings, the fall out for me. And to do it in a way which might benefit those who have had similar experiences. And by benefit, I mean just feeling less alone by knowing someone else felt it. I’m not saying I don’t still feel pangs of guilt when I share on a personal level, I’ve just accepted that is part of my process and part of who I am.
I read over my work as I would a stranger. I don’t ever want someone to be reading and think, man this girl really doesn’t see who she is. In general I am pretty hard on myself, so I recognise the parts I play in issues. I’m not so much looking to paint others in a bad light, or vindicate myself. I’m more about, getting in touch with the feelings that collect inside with each new predicament. And if you’re a sensitive person, there’s usually regular predicaments, that range from simple to earth shattering.
I think for me, my sharing is more about being relatable, and also lessening the intensity of my own experiences.
It’s not the first time I’ve shared these kind of thoughts, and it won’t be the last. Part of healing and growing as a person is to continue recognising growth. Tacking on, constructively adjusting, and reshaping yourself as you go, and hopefully finding peace in the chaos.
Footnote
