Why I Write

Your home is that thing to which you can dedicate your energies with such singular devotion that the ultimate results become inconsequential.

– Elizabeth Gilbert, Ted Talk.

Some people might be wondering why I choose to write this blog.  Some people might even feel embarrassed for me in reading my posts, or they might find my writing so discomfiting that they choose not to read it at all.  After all, I write about deep, dark, personal things I think most people would be ashamed to admit to themselves or to their closest intimates.  I was ashamed to admit such things not too long ago, sometimes even to myself.  So, why air my “dirty laundry” so publicly?  Why expose myself so willingly to others who might try to use my openness against me?

Firstly, I write because I’m compelled to.  Eight years ago, I felt I was on the brink of a breakdown, so consumed was I by confusing, conflicting, and scary emotions.  At the end of my rope, feeling I could talk to no one about what was going on inside me, I turned to writing for release.  Anna Nalick captured this feeling beautifully in her song “Breathe:”

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer
Inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to

Secondly, I write for catharsis.  For the last 8 years, my journal has been an abundant source of contemplation and therapy for me.  It’s a place where I can explore my thoughts, emotions, motivations, decisions, actions, behaviors, and shadow without fear of judgment or reprisal.  I have learned so much and learned to let go of so much through my writing.  When some thought, fear, emotion, or concern overwhelms me and takes me over, I go straight to my journal for release.

My journal is my lifeblood, but I never intended to make public the inner workings of my mind, my struggles with despair, with loneliness, with life.  In fact, the thought of others knowing my darkest, most shameful thoughts terrified me.  I felt incredibly vulnerable to being used, manipulated, trampled on, abandoned.  I kept up a thick shield that I never fully took down, even with friends.  In doing so, I unconsciously drove others away.  I felt isolated.  Worse than that, I was afraid others would find out how alone I was, how unsatisfying my life was, how miserably I was failing at being happy (no doubt they all knew anyway – it’s not exactly something that hides well).

I got to watching Ted Talks a few years ago.  I wish I could remember the first Ted Talk I watched, but I remember instantly falling in love with Ted Talks, with the abundance of talks from enigmatic speakers on every topic under the sun.  Maybe a year or two ago, perusing the “most popular” list for something to watch, I stumbled on Brene Brown’s talk on vulnerability.  Her talk spoke to my heart not only – and not even firstly – because of what she found in her research (which I found to be moving and poignant in its own right), but because of her sharing her own story of struggle and shame and vulnerability with an open heart.  She demonstrated in that talk what she had found in her research – that vulnerability creates connection.  I felt connected to her.  I admired her so much, and I appreciated her so much because in telling her story, she was telling my story too, giving voice to what I could only write of silently in my journal.  And I remember thinking that I could never do that.  I could never get up and tell my story like she did.  And while I loved her for doing it, I didn’t understand why she did it – wasn’t she afraid to concede “failure?”  Wasn’t she afraid of the judgment she might face?  Didn’t she worry what anyone else thought of her?  I hadn’t seen anyone else get up in front of crowd of people to talk about the emotional breakdown they had after their research didn’t go as planned.

Others followed Brene Brown:  Jill Bolte Taylor, Andrew Solomon (this one, too), Tony Porter and others.  I was moved by their stories, and by their willingness to tell them.  Listening to them tell their stories brought me great relief, as if they were lifting a weight off my own shoulders.  I loved and admired and appreciated these people for what they gave me in telling their stories, yet I could never imagine having the courage or the strength to do the same.  What would I even say?

For these speakers, their fear and shame became a force for good when they shared their stories with others.  Sharing their fear and shame became a force for good because it both allowed them to let go of the burden they were carrying and it created a healing sense of connection with their audiences.  There’s a reason all of these talks have had millions of views – by shining the spotlight on their own shame and fear, they enable others to bring a little of their own shame and fear to the light to be healed.  By sharing their stories with us, the make us feel not so alone.

I let go of my fear of telling my story the day I let go of my fear of walking away from known misery.  I tell my story because doing so keeps me honest – I can’t lie to myself, I can’t blame the world around me, when I have readers to hold me to the fire.  I tell my story because having no secrets means having no shame, and what a relief it is drop the burden of shame.  I tell my story because telling my story heals us both, connects us both, makes us both feel not so alone.  I tell my story as an expression of gratitude to those who’ve shared their own story so openly and generously with me.  I tell my story because I can.  I tell my story because I have to.

As an aside, I want to address any concerns you may have for me when I write about the darkness inside me – my fear, my shame, my anxiety, my hopelessness, my loneliness, my despair, my hate.  We all feel all these things to greater or lesser degrees, we just tend not to talk about or acknowledge it.  We tend to label these things as “bad,” and we feel poorly about ourselves when we feel this way and worry about our loved ones when they experience the same feelings.  Those are the seeds of repression and shame.  I welcome your compassion and empathy in witnessing my pain, but there’s no need for worry or concern.  Know that in writing about these things, I have been relieved of their burden even before you’ve read the words.  When I say writing is a catharsis, I mean it – it’s not merely a platitude, but a purging of the ills that lie within me.  It’s when I stop writing about these things you may have cause for concern.

TL;DR:  No tl;dr for you.  Read the post.