I have always loved to write. I have had many blogs, various subjects, never satisfied with the results of my writing, always looking to get something from it.
It was not until recently that I realized, it was less about entertaining and more about journaling. I wanted other people to read my blog and empathize with me, look up to me, be entertained by me. None of that was fulfilling, because none of it was my true motivation for writing.
I once kept journals. I had dozens of them, from different times in my life. Mostly ramblings about my feelings, usually about relationships. In a relationship, my love read all of my old journals. I felt violated. It was not because I had anything to hide from him, it was that he let himself, uninvited to my private thoughts. I felt violated because he used insecurities I felt against me. He spoke of former lovers I had written about and was threatened by the raw feeling and emotions in my journals.
I threw every single journal away, it was mostly as a symbol to him, that I was leaving the past behind me. The problem was, I was not ready to leave it behind, Having those journals now, would help me understand my motivations, my repeated patterns... finding the patterns earlier in myself, perhaps to find out where certain insecurities or vulnerabilities began and what negativity I was trying to overcome early on. What poor decisions did I make, trying to heal old wounds.
As I explore my insecurities, and heal those old wounds, I really wish I had those journals. I felt resentful of not having them. Then, it occured to me, that even the act of getting rid of all my journals was a symptom of old wounds. Giving away little peices of myself for the love and acceptance of others. Yes, getting rid of those journals was supposed to be symbolic of healing and moving on. Rather throwing them away, was giving away a piece of myself, many pieces of pain and hurt that were not healed. I needed to keep them until I was ready. I needed to keep them because they were private. My pain, my dreams... They were mine to keep. They were not his to come in, uninvited even, and then to use them against me to feed his own insecurity. It was his issue, not mine. If reading my private thoughts was hurtful to him, he should have stopped reading them. Rather he held things against me, things that had absolutely nothing to do with him. He used feelings from my past, love for someone, my ramblings as I tried to negotiate the rough waters of my emotions. Yes, that was his problem, he was not invited in, yet he took it. Esentially, he raped me, not in a sexual way, no... this was much worse, this was an emotional raping. I was violated.
As I explore my inner life and share on a public blog, I am trying to recognize that I should not be ashamed of my thoughts and feelings anymore. They do not need to be hidden. I should not worry about hurting someone else's feelings when it may mean being untrue to myself. I have a right to own my thoughts, my feelings, my insecurities. They are mine. I choose now to share them, because it is part of my spiritual journey. Writing about them helps me, sharing them helps me release them. If I can open up to those secrets I have kept locked away and hidden, I can let them go. Letting go, after all is the only way to let the new stuff in.
I invite you on this spiritual journey with me. I invite you to find strength in my weaknesses. I invite you to find health in my pain. I invite you to recognize when something rings true with yourself and heal along side me.
Life is a journey.
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