I’ve always thought of myself to be good with words, a competent writer, erudite. I used to write poems as a kid, and kept a diary. But this is harder than I realised. This being starting a blog, writing down my feelings and thoughts, and releasing it into the labyrinthine world that is the internet. I don’t imagine anyone would ever read this, and I’m not sure I even want to interact with whoever that does. I guess I’m kinda old school that way. You know, when keeping a diary meant it was private, for my eyes only. And in a way, this is … kinda private? Only it’s not. It’s a really strange feeling, to know that anyone anywhere in the world could read this. I know, I could set the options to private, so no one could read it, but that would be too safe, wouldn’t it? I always play things safe. This is just that little bit more dangerous. Scary. Not knowing who is reading my words, not knowing what anyone thinks or is saying about them. But I remember that in the early days of the internet, one didn’t know anyway. There was barely any interaction between the person writing the blog or creating the website and the readers. You had a website, you put words on it, maybe some shitty gifs or whatever, and that was that. There wasn’t really a need or expectation for the rest of the world to be able to comment, scrutinise or get back in touch. I think I prefer it that way. I’m more-or-less safe in my little corner of cyberspace. Whoever happens to pass by can read what I write. If they find it interesting, or can relate, they can stick around or come back for more. If they don’t like what I have to say, well frankly, they can just piss off and leave me alone to my little domain.
Since I was a kid, I’ve usually tried to keep my thoughts to myself. I think it was some sort of safety mechanism I used to protect myself from put-downs, especially from my sister, but it was possibly also that my parents didn’t really encourage us to speak up or express ourselves. Especially being the youngest in the family, it was as if I were at the bottom of the pecking order. Us kids (my sister and I) had to listen to the adults talk without questioning or interruption. And the little sister (me) was expected to listen to the older ones (my parents and my sister). So I wasn’t expected to voice my opinions at all! Not that I always played by the rules. But I guess when you’re little, you don’t really have the means to fight back. So I kept my thoughts to myself. And I guess that was where it came from. But I wasn’t just gonna let them control me with me being the dutiful listener and follower. So I guess I somehow turned that forced silence into some sort of fighting back strategy? Meaning, I guess I just learned to be tight lipped, even when they did expect me to speak up. I’m not saying it was a good thing. I’m just saying that it was something I did as a child and well … all the way to adulthood, I suppose. And it somehow shaped me. But it hasn’t always served me well. Of course it hasn’t. Enforced silence never leads to good things. And I am living through the consequences even now in my middle years. And the power dynamics between my sister and I from when we were young is still giving me gripe now in adulthood. Shitey sibling dynamics don’t just go away when you grow up.
So anyway, why now? Why am I expressing myself now? Well, you know, if I never start it will keep eating me up inside until the fabric of my core has all disintegrated and I’m left with nothing but a hollow shell. Also, I started seeing a therapist again and she suggested I put my words out there. So here I am, trying to untangle the emotional and psychological mess that’s been coiled up inside me for so many decades. I’m trying to heal some of the hurt I’ve experienced over the years, and trying to let go of the things I cannot change. Even writing this just now, without all of the specifics and details, is hard and is making me remember all the times that I was struck down. No, not physically. Never physically. That’s something, at least. But verbally. Always verbally. The words, the tone of voice, the look. There are no visible scars, no visible bruises, no broken bones. But the unseen things hurt all the same. Not in the same way, of course, but hurt they do. And they cut deep. Deep deep into the chasm of my being, the very fabric of who I am. All my insecurities, my low self-esteem, my chronic depression, my lack of self-worth. They have had nearly half a century to take hold and fester. Healing won’t be easy, if it is even possible. But I should at least try.
Writing this has really taken it out of me, reaching in to the places I don’t want to go. I guess that’ll do for a first post. Maybe I’ll come back soon, maybe not. Who knows. Still, this is a start.