My lovely gal pal, sk, is supportive and proud of my writing. This is one area of her life in which she wants to improve upon. I am a good writer. . .okay, maybe not in blog world all the time but my professional letters are good, i.e. grammatically correct and in active voice. My blogs are filled with words that come to mind, free-floating, without editing. They string along like a conversation, one in my head, but a conversation nonetheless. sk recruits me to help her compose letters and applications. Because we both agree I am better with the written English language, she will come to me for assistance and accept the help I offer. I’m not flaunting my ability just stating how it is in our house.
I’ve dabbled in the written word since I can remember. I first began with short, oddly worded poems. Ones that I shared with no one. Then I moved onto short essays, once again, shared with no one. Circled back to poetry while at university and shared with one person, my Mom. Being a broke full-time student, I conceived these meaningful and heart-felt lyrical lines then mailed them to my Mom stuck in a cheap card. These passed as her gifts for five years, from Mother’s Day to her birthday. She never complained. In fact she kept many, if not all, as mementoes.
I continued to write off and on; keeping my pieces buried in a drawer, away from everyone. About ten months ago, the writing itch became strong, strong enough for me to look more into the blog I created four years prior but did nothing about. Since then, the words flow smoothly, for the most part. Sometimes, I read one of my published posts to sk. She encourages me to write more and boosts my ego with her praises.
Little did I know that sk told others about my blog. I hadn’t told anyone, except her. I do not have this blog linked to my Facebook account or to any other social media outlet. I have friends, real-life friends, not just online bodies who also blog here at WordPress, sometimes they even include me in their storytelling. I do not lead on that I am aware of this or that I too may publish the exact same scenario but this time from my perspective, not theirs. Due to her pride in my stories, sk spread the word about The Little Butch That Could. Horrified, my words stopped.
I don’t know why I feel so exposed or vulnerable by others reading my stories. The events, activities and emotions are all real and true based on my recollection. I may elaborate details or skim over others to emphasize the humor or to hide identities. I feel the need to clarify: I do not worry about strangers reading my work, it’s the thought of people I know. . . people I routinely see or speak with. . . reading my essays that makes me cringe in fear. I understand this is an irrational fear but that does nothing to keep it from occurring. Silenced.
In the last several weeks, I spent many evenings thinking about the direction of this blog. Should I continue? Force myself to plow through this difficult time while trying to forget that my minister or best friend from university may read my post. How good would those pieces turn out? Starting fresh is also an option. I could start another blog and change the focus. Am I any closer to deciding what to do? Nope.
While trying to decide what will become of this space, I also tried to understand why I even have this fear. I am not the touchy-feely let’s talk about feelings type. If a friend or office-friend of mine is close to tears while sharing a sad situation or event, I may reach out to pat them on the shoulder or touch their forearm, that’s it. Sometimes they will mistake this action for approval to get a hug. I try to keep the embrace as platonic and short as possible. The only individual who violates my personal space on a regular basis and with whom it’s okay to do so is sk. Nor am I one to talk about my feelings. I’ve told sk in the past that I am not that deep of a person, therefore, I do not have many feelings. Being a therapist, she wasn’t fooled.
Looking back on past posts, I realized I am more free with my feelings and emotions in print than in any other form of expression. I don’t think I employ another form of expression, unless you count not sharing as a form of its own. It’s taken me several years with sk to be able to discuss the few emotions I can identify. I just don’t know if I’m ready for other people who know me to have access to them as well.