I have been really scared this week. I have been sad. For reasons global and personal. But until today, I didn’t really let my body in on the information that’s been stuck in my brain and heart. I got up like usual and then a few hours after waking, began to feel a little odd. Like a virus coming on. Achy, cold, tired. I let myself go back to bed, let my husband take over with our son. And as I heard the garage door close after they left, all of a sudden, tears eked out the corners of my eyes, easing slightly a heaviness I didn’t even realize was in my chest.
In the face of great loss and sorrow, of illusions stripped away and small fears magnified, I often think I am sad, but do not allow myself to feel sad. What this means is that instead of a good cry, I suddenly find a knot in my shoulder, or my stomach gets queasy. I come from a long line of people who express our emotional pain somatically, through the body instead of words. I realize that I don’t much like talking about my pain in person, either. Really, writing is my way. I can safely put it down here without having to look anyone in the eye, and then you can read it, and leave your thoughts in words. It’s a very crucial method.
It’s been a time of writing and publishing “dangerously” for me–putting into words truths and secrets that have been long kept locked in mental trunks for years. Some of these pieces have the potential to hurt others’ feelings, to affect our relationships, and to reveal me in a less than flattering light. But I can’t stop to worry too much about that any longer. Releasing them is necessary to my mental and physical health. I’d rather be real than hold up a false image.
In the face of things I struggle to feel my way through, writing is my only recourse.
So, if you missed any of them:
Surface/ing: Rediscovering my Authenticity After a Controlling Relationship— in Medium’s “Human Parts.”
A Breach of Trust–Washington Post
Inner Apocalypse–Write Livelihood
Naked Ladies–The Rumpus