I put this one off for a long time. Partially because I was sick, and partially because I really just don’t talk about myself. It’s not that I’m some big secret, it’s just that I never know how to do it. But I’ve spent the weekend with my family, and I’m feeling very grounded in where I come from, so I figure my start is a start.
When I’ve worked on these posts, it’s been a bit more organized than I think this one will be. I have the pre-ramble, the ramble, the wrap up – and I have a goal. I don’t really know what I’m doing with this. So I’m just gonna do it. Consider this the pre-ramble, I suppose.
One of the things from my 90 sec brain storming sessions was a blurry thoughtform about my sister. Part of my story is her story, their story, our story. I come from a family of mental health issues, and they are most definitely part of the reason I write. I write to know myself, I write to relate, I write to express things I can’t put to spoke words. I write in the hopes that they’ll read, I write in the hopes that I’ll understand, I write to distance myself from it all, for clarity and perspective. I write because there’s voices in my head telling me I must. I write because sometimes I feel like someone else. And I write because of where I come from.
I’m the oldest of five, and all of us are readers. We’re all loners, we all carry more burden than we have to, and we all find our ways to escape. My little sister is music, but she writes as well, kinda like I dabble on the piano, but I’m no where near her gift. But I can write like no one’s business, and I want to tell my story because I know its like hers.
I guess the story I want to tell is my battle with self-harm, but I don’t know how to tell it yet. I don’t know how to start it, and I don’t know where it ends. But I know I’m not the only little girl who’s sat alone in her room in the middle of the night, feeling like the whole world is empty, like my skin is too full, like I’ll never hurt enough to really feel what I feel.
But I want to. I want to tell this story. I want to tell it in a way that will help. I want one less little girl to feel so alone.
That’s the story I want to tell. But I want to perfect my story telling first.
So I write. I write and I write and I write and maybe someday I’ll get it out. Until then, I’ll write.
And help you to write too.
Together, we can tell our stories.
I usually ramble like this (as you all know) and very seldom polish it up. But this post is important to me, and I want to really make it shine. That’s why I haven’t told this story yet, because I know I’m not ready. But I haven’t told the rough draft yet because I’m afraid. Afraid I’ll get it wrong, afraid I’ll get it right, afraid it won’t make any difference, afraid it will – just afraid. But I’ve conquered a lot of fears lately, and hopefully this will be another year of conquering more.
Thank you for reading this, all of you, and thank you for giving me the courage to keep going.
Happy Writing everyone.