My entire life has been filled with dreams of being a writer.

What do these dreams look like? Doing exactly what I’m doing right now.

Simply being heard on a page, on a screen.

I used to have much less trouble exposing my deeper thoughts, being vulnerable here on a page, where I can’t see peoples eyes to correct their judgements of me.

Recently I had my worst fears as a writer come true.

My mum read some pretty hurtful stuff I’d written about her.

The guilt poured out like treacle. I’d hurt her so deeply. ┬áIt seemed this love of mine, this form of expression was designed to inflict pain.

So I stopped again. Winding myself up into a little ball. Shutting the door to my creativity once again.

As a writer my life is my source of material.

This means that everyone in it is vulnerable too.

Which… when I was younger was fine, I didn’t care.

The people I wrote about back then (mostly young men with no idea they were the subjects of my tomes of expression) were often only in my life for short periods of time.

I didn’t give a flying fuck about if they found it, in fact it would have delighted me, I was so desperate to be heard.

Now I am an adult, I am married, I’m a high school teacher, I live in a very small community and my friends all have access to this website and well…the only people that do read my writing are people I know.

This leaves me feeling vulnerable.

I feel that everything I write must be true.

But the thing about me is that everything is true, until I write about it, move through the emotion or saga of drama and then it’s no big deal. Writing for me is my most powerful processing mechanism.

But being a writer means I leave a footprint and a often, a mess behind me.

The vulnerability extends to my ego image.

I want so desperately to be seen as someone that has it together, with full knowledge that no-one else does, my ego is hard to get past sometimes.

It says, ‘people will use what you write against you, they will paint a picture of you with your words and you will never escape it, you will be left unloved, unliked, unemployable’.

I guess where I’m at now is that I want to not care, even if this is true.

Because I have been separated from my true self, my writer self for what feels like a lifetime.

Simply because I am too afraid of being vulnerable.

So, I write this in hope that a gate might open in me.

That my experiences may once again be explored on a page.

It is not anyone but myself that I plead, ‘Mia, release me from this internal straight jacket, this fear of being exposed and ruined because of it.before we are both destroyed with madness, please.’

 

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