When I was in elementary school I dreamed of being a writer. I spent weekends in writing workshops and summers in writing camps. I’ve written 19 volumes of personal journals. I am sure there are many, many treasures buried in them.
One day in 2007, I don’t quite remember when, I came home from work to have my love of writing, my desire to write, entirely squished. Squished like that spider that dared to run across my arm. It was likely a bad week, anger and resentment filling our home. My ex-husband read my journal while I was at work. It’s not that anything in there was too entirely sacred, but it was very personal. It was the tool I was using to deal with the struggles we were having in our marriage while trying to keep the hysterical crying to a minimum. My first thoughts were, ‘great, now you know all the emotions I have struggles sharing with you verbally. let’s talk’. His reaction: ‘you are selfish, all you talk about are your emotions and how they relate to the world. your thoughts, your fears. it’s all about you.’
He didn’t get the reason why I wrote this.
Ever since then I’ve struggled. I managed to keep a journal while I was living in Africa. When you’re far away from friends and family, a piece of paper can become your very best friend.
Now that I’m in Canada, I struggle again. I write from time to time in my journal but not with the voracity I once did. I’m trying to write through this blog, but I struggle with that as well.
There are so many things on my “to write about list”. And yet I keep writing about how I need to write.
I wonder what is really holding me back.
Vulnerability? Am I afraid to share all my thoughts, thinking that I might once again be accused of being too selfish?Follow @genthoughts