I wrote. It was cathartic.
It was something I did for myself.
And then my writing connected me to people who had been in similar situations, who had felt similar pain. Friends who I had not been in touch with, had lost with time and distance, reached out when things went amiss in their life. They told me it helped them –– my writing.
Knowing them, helped me too.
The journey is always easier when you have companionship and understanding.
Over time, as I continue to write about my life, my second marriage, my children, my struggles as a parent; when I puts words to my life, to my thoughts, I understand that the private becomes public. The lines between personal and public get blurred.
Not everyone finds that comfortable.
I often ask myself, is this okay? The blurred lines, and the lack of curtains in our lives.
And then I tell myself, the world is filled with enough filters. And the cloud of ‘shame’ must go, in talking about issues that affect us in our world.
Sometimes, when I am still doubtful, a message pops up. “I loved that you spoke about this. and It helped me.” I am reminded again that this has stopped becoming about me, a while ago. When my son tells his friends that I am a blogger or be careful, my mom might write about it, I am both amused and encouraged.
Not everyone has this luxury. It comes because I have a family that backs me, that supports me and encourages me. When I lose track of my intention or my purpose my husband gently brings me back on track. Simply write, he tells me. He is such a private man, I imagine his extended family is glad they get to know what is happening in his life through my posts. They joke about it. My mom and mother-in-law both read all my posts, despite technology not being their strength. My father will fight the world for me because he sees and knows what affects me.
Sometimes, I am called out. Questioned. It hurts when it is family but only because we allow them to. A cousin called me years ago asking if i had thought how my actions would affect them, or impact their possible marriages. I had and that’s why it was important my story was out there. I am not sure she understood. It hurt that she thought I would not have. Recently, I was called out again.
I do not intend to hurt, only be honest, about myself, my journey and my thoughts.
I write because it helps me.
I write because I know friends and people tell me that my words have helped them.
If one woman walks out of an abusive marriage because of my writing, it makes it worth it. If one parent, who is feeling helpless and broken today, finds strength in my words, it is enough for me.
My failures are lessons, not just mine, but for the world to learn from.
That is my truth.
And this is what I do,