I am struggling with my writing. There is this enormous road block of fear, and denial, and the need to please that impedes my progress. You see, the safe choice would be to wait at the road block until the road work was done, and continue on. But the only way this work will get done is if I get out and do it myself. And the scary part is that the work involves telling stories about my life, about my family, about my history, and I am afraid that these stories might hurt people other than myself. But these are my stories. Some of them are funny, some of them are sad, some a combination of the two. It is my perspective, my gut, my humor, my pain. But does that make it right to send it out into the world for all to see? Why do I want to do that?
I don't think it is a question of desire. Is it a compulsion? Exhibitionism? A cry for attention? A punishment?
I think -- I think I know that telling my stories is my way of reaching out, of communicating the universal ugliness and ridiculousness of life - and by sharing this, maybe not being quite so alone in feeling like odd girl out.
But I hear this voice, like a troll behind that damn road block, saying: " Why do you want to embarrass yourself like that? Why don't you just deal with it in therapy? Don't upset your family. Don't raise your voice. Be nice, little girl."
Where has being nice gotten me thus far?
