I have written some raw and honest posts which are sad tales of my past. Struggles I have had or am still enduring. One of the greatest feelings I get after writing one of these pieces is a sense of release. A cleansing of the palate, freedom from the torture inside my mind. I write them for me, but also for anyone who may relate. I have selfish reasons for sharing some of my words, requiring to feel I’m not alone.
There is something to be said when connecting to another human being from the other side of the world. Especially one who has been through what I have. Every time someone reaches out, I am humbled and honoured I have touched them with my words. Again, selfishly I feel less alone.
Receiving messages from someone who has read one of my stories is an honour. Some have described me as a warrior, fighter, and survivor. Those are humbling (often embarrassing) words to read when the reality is I’m just a girl trying to work out how to deal with what life has thrown my way. Or the veracity of my mistakes. Not only have I had some arduous moments caused by others, but I have also waded in the sorrow of my personal transgressions. I’m merely trying to piece together the girl who is me, and I do that through writing.
Of all the words I have read to describe my pieces of writing, one that resonates with me is the word brave. I don’t feel brave when writing, ever.
My writing isn’t brave. It’s a necessity.
The first time I was brave I was only a girl. I don’t have clear memories of my sexual abuse as a child. But I have no doubt in my mind it must have taken the courage of a soldier to carry my four-year-old feet through the door of my abuser’s home. Every day a brave little girl marched with her head high, ready to face and endure pain. To me, that is bravery.
Bravery is a sensation in your gut. Twisting and turning your intestines into knots of anxiety. It places a sickness over you and scrapes at your resolution. Inducing fear with sharp intent. Without fear, you cannot be brave. I do not fear to share my words with the reader; I must share them.
Clearly I am not speaking for all writers, bravery and courage unquestionably comes in different forms, for each of us have our own fears. It just so happens sharing my words is not one of them.
Many times in my life I have felt an overwhelming sense of fear. I’ve put on a confident face, walked over hot coals of judgement and have moved across with minimal damage. There have also been times in my life I have cowered, descending into myself to numb the pain. Fear is the epitome of bravery. But if you don’t act against fear and move forward there is no bravery at all. For myself, the act of bravery is not placed in my fingers as I tap these keys. Sharing my stories with whoever will read them is the easy part, the self-indulgent part. It’s my release.
I will stand tall with pride as I feel if I am anything at all, it is I am a learner, a recovering addict, a survivor and mostly just a girl who loves words and the connection they bring to humans. I am a girl who has been brave, and will continue to do so when needed. But please understand, I don’t feel brave in sharing my writing. They may be words of bravery once had, but as I pen them, they become my freedom.