In a recent writing workshop, we were given a brief guided meditation and then a prompt, with 10 minutes to just spew out whatever came to mind. This is what I wrote.
Where was I when I told the truth and why did it matter?
I was sitting at the kitchen counter, on a tall bar stool, watching my husband make dinner. We were talking about a bunch of different topics and he had been sharing something he was thinking about and being very vulnerable. For some reason, in the back of my head, the thought occurred: Tell him the thing. Tell him the thing that only one other person knows and no one else ever will. It’s a safe space. And so I did. I jumped off the ledge of protection. I left behind the fear of judgment. I left behind the idea that this would forever tarnish how he looks at me and just told him my secret.
The funny thing was, it wasn’t that hard. It wasn’t nearly as hard as spending years not telling him. Thinking about the idea and thinking I’ll never tell him that thing I did. Never ever will I tell it. But I did. And he received it well, but then started asking all sorts of questions and I flew right back on that ledge and asked him to stop asking me about it. The walls closed down around me and I wondered if I’d regret it, telling him that thing. And then I remembered the freedom on sharing it, of unburdening a secret I had for years kept from him and from everyone else. And thought, it wasn’t so bad.
But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do it again. I might. I might be so honest that the mask falls and all you see are the bones of my face, the flesh stripped off. It scares the crap out of me. It’s as scary as sharing my writing, but here I am, in this program, sharing my writing, so would it be so bad? I don’t know. I only know just thinking about it causes a flurry of emotions – sadness, overwhelment (is that a word?), heart pounding scariness, the adrenaline rushing through my veins causing me to tingle and be cold and yet warm all at the same time.
Thinking back, it was worth it, I know that, but it still feels like stepping off a cliff without a net or a warm body of water to greet me as I fall. I want to have my writing do that same thing for my readers. I want them to cry and laugh and connect with my characters, but how can I do that if I can’t do that myself in my real life? There’s the kicker – the fear of being vulnerable which is making me not be vulnerable which is causing me to hold back in sharing my emotions which may result in me not being the great writer I think I can be, I know I can be, I hope I can be.