Pushing Past Insecurity... and Writing...
I love to write. I used to write all the time. My world (as I used to know it...when I had time) was written down in journals... of all shapes and sizes. I have notebooks filled with scribbles and doodles, tears and joys, hurt and love. All different writing styles, all different writing instruments, all different ink colors... all kind of dependent on my mood of the moment.
I used to write in my journal, that I kept tucked under my pillow on the bed. (By the way, I still do have one under there... along with a set of tarot cards wrapped in black silk material)... anyway... I love to write. I write poetry, I journal, I now blog... When I did my poetry, I won awards and had them published. When I journaled, it was for me... my ups and downs, my frustration and happiness, yadda yadda yadda.
Many things I write are for my eyes only... but then here I am, in the cyber world, blogging... about a lot of stuff. I vent, I rant, I admit defeat, I open to insecurities, all to a world of people I really don't know.
My child does not know I have this blog. He does know I hang out with "mommy blogs" (where else would I come up with the totally health-conscious recipe of baking chocolate chip cookies on top of double-stuff oreos??? Check out 2 Little Birds!!!!) But he doesn't know I ACTUALLY blog! (probably a good thing... considering that there seem to be many mommies who are getting busted by their kids finding their "secret hiding spot" (i.e. blog)
Okay, anyway, back to the topic... I love to write and used to fill notebooks with all sorts of things... from my crushes, to my stress, to my eating disorder cycles, to whatever came to mind. It was my outlet, my release, my therapy... and I was pretty damn good at it... not to mention I would never run out of notebooks or writing instruments because I consider one of my "other homes" the office supply store down the street!
But then, one day, it was compromised and I could no longer trust people. What happened was that my (now ex) husband would go through my stuff, including my car, and be nosy, when I wasn't around or when I was sleeping. He did not seem to understand the meaning of "privacy" which lead of much of my distress. He confronted me about my journals and what was written in them... and then to make it worse, he photocopied them to keep readily handy. When I found out, I went psycho! OMG! I am not sure if, at that point, I was more in disbelief that he did it, betrayed that he would think about it, pissed that he went through my personal stuff, or wanting to bitch slap him for just all of the above!
At that point, it became VERY difficult to write... anything... I was upset, angry, distraught, frustrated, beside myself... you name it, I was there. I still, even after all these years, have difficulty putting words physically on to paper. I am afraid it will lead me to hurt and betrayal, yet again. Now, I still have a sense of anonymity but I can "talk" and "chat" with people who only know me for who I am and understand that not everyone is alone and that we all have some type of insecurities.
I would love to write again. I want to. But I can't bring myself to do it. My heart and my mind can't agree on actually doing it. Maybe someday... maybe not... who knows...
Okay, anyway, back to the topic... I love to write and used to fill notebooks with all sorts of things... from my crushes, to my stress, to my eating disorder cycles, to whatever came to mind. It was my outlet, my release, my therapy... and I was pretty damn good at it... not to mention I would never run out of notebooks or writing instruments because I consider one of my "other homes" the office supply store down the street!
But then, one day, it was compromised and I could no longer trust people. What happened was that my (now ex) husband would go through my stuff, including my car, and be nosy, when I wasn't around or when I was sleeping. He did not seem to understand the meaning of "privacy" which lead of much of my distress. He confronted me about my journals and what was written in them... and then to make it worse, he photocopied them to keep readily handy. When I found out, I went psycho! OMG! I am not sure if, at that point, I was more in disbelief that he did it, betrayed that he would think about it, pissed that he went through my personal stuff, or wanting to bitch slap him for just all of the above!
At that point, it became VERY difficult to write... anything... I was upset, angry, distraught, frustrated, beside myself... you name it, I was there. I still, even after all these years, have difficulty putting words physically on to paper. I am afraid it will lead me to hurt and betrayal, yet again. Now, I still have a sense of anonymity but I can "talk" and "chat" with people who only know me for who I am and understand that not everyone is alone and that we all have some type of insecurities.
I would love to write again. I want to. But I can't bring myself to do it. My heart and my mind can't agree on actually doing it. Maybe someday... maybe not... who knows...
