The Dangers of Writing

I started this blog a few years ago. Putting my thoughts out into the ether. I have always found value in sharing stories. I know that I am not the only one that deals with trauma, drama and everyday absurdities. If I can say something that helps someone to feel connected, heard or inspired then my blog’s purpose is fulfilled. The stories can be funny, compassionate, hard, sad, bright and ugly. 

I have had mental health issues my whole life- for as long and as much of it as I can remember. 

I carried much of it with shame. Shame that my perception is not always accurate, shame that I see so many things through the lens of my trauma changed brain. Shame that I have never been able to banish all my mental monsters. Shame that sometimes they win. After a massive mental disconnect in my mid 40s I dug into the self shadow work. I got help to pick apart the things that had begun to debilitate me. One of the things I appreciate now entering in my 50s is that I have made headway, I understand so much more about myself. There has been healing but there are still things that bring almost an immediate shroud of shame and the chains of the rooted anxiety.

As much as I can feel confident when I commit the words to the page I can also continually over think and over edit. One of my long held fears is being misunderstood. That is hard when I write posts, for the most part not a lot of people I know in real life read this, most of my readers are people I only know (if at all) online. One of the workings of my anxious brain is worrying what people are thinking. Therapy has really helped me to diminish where I place that on my list of important things. Some times it is hard when you get feed back, that you have been hurtful, over dramatic or reported an event or time incorrectly. 

The thing is, I am not writing this for historical accuracy or to tell anyone else’s story but my own. So when, I am told I have done it wrong, it hits a mental monster hard. I do not always have the best memory. It is common for people with CPTSD to have gaps in timelines or time confusion. Another thing is that I am writing from my perspective, sometimes it is the monster’s perspective, but through the lens I have. Therefore my feelings and how I translate them are not wrong. At times I am sure misguided, but they are mine and my story to tell. I have to remind myself of this when it comes to others perceptions. They do not live in my head- (I have enough inhabitants thank you), they do not see through my heart and eyes. 

I do not write to make myself the absolute victim or the absolute hero. I do not claim to really know anyone’s intent. Although more often than not, I do believe that most peoples intent is not nefarious at all.

It is an odd thing to write so much that is so personal yet to not want anyone to take it personally. I never use anybody’s name, they are part of my story but I am not telling their version, only mine. On the occasions that my tales are read by anyone who believes they appear in the narrative I hope they remember that the author of this blog does not claim to have confirmed their reasoning or intent. That the author has damage in her brain that makes some perceptions a little skewed. 

But in truth I am merely talking about what I observed, how I reacted in the moment and trying to distill if there is anything to learn and appreciate. There is danger in writing, but there is salvation here to. I can not claim that my perspective is right or wrong, I just know that it is mine.