Before I dive back into writing about my childhood and actively work on my book, I want to discuss why I’m doing this in the first place. No. Seriously. Why am I putting myself in this torturous position? It’s so hard. I’m dying! Send help! Or if you’re from my hometown, send a King Cake. I know it’s Mardi Gras season, ya’ll…
No one is asking me to do this. In fact, I’ve been told not to disclose these stories. Deny. Deny. Deny. That’s what my dad taught me. My whole life I’ve been ignoring or avoiding what I’ve been through. It wasn’t that bad, but don’t say anything to anyone. No one needs to know. Don’t make the other person uncomfortable. When in doubt, lie. However, sometimes we don’t chose what we write about. It somehow chooses us. Grrreat.
The thing is, I’m not even sure how to begin my book. It’s tough to tell stories that people tell us not to tell. I’m embarrassed. Why do I want to admit to the world that what some asshole kid said to me in 5th grade still haunts me every day? Why do I need to expose other traumatic events from my childhood? Especially sexual trauma? Those are shameful and normally kept secret.
But something is telling me that when I open up…my heart, my wounds, my past…my future will open up too.