Asked this question earlier today, I was immediately thoughtful. Why AM I writing these things down? I couldn’t immediately come up with anything but “because I have to”
For so long these things have lived in my head, taking up valuable space and nagging me. The words, seemingly, have taken a life of their own and are gushing from my fingertips faster than I can even type them at times. It’s weird, sometimes I can’t think of anything proper to say, like when I’m trying to come up with things for my kids to write for their schooling or reports, I draw a blank. Then there are times like this when I can’t sleep, can’t eat, nothing except write. It drives me nuts. It’s like someone else is using my hands for their evil deeds, forcing the words inside to come to the surface for all to see. So often when I finish writing, I feel drained, like I’ve had a good hard cry or some really good sex. Sometimes I read the words and feel so exposed and ashamed but I find myself unable (unwilling?) to cut them.
Most of these things I write here I’ve never told anyone. Not even my therapist of many years. It’s all been inside, carried around like a top-secret recipe. Maybe if someone else reads these pages, they won’t feel so alone. Maybe, just maybe, someone will listen and be aware of things around them not being what they should and DO something. I’m not an activist, I’m just an old woman that’s experienced some of the true horrors of life. Should I continue? I don’t know that I can STOP telling my story. We’ll have to take this as it comes.