I write too many of my blogs late at night when my emotions are untethered and my mental filters thin. I expose all the shadow of my life, my pain, my questions, unable to weigh the risk of vulnerability.
Sure, each word hangs true and I would back every phrase even in midday, but most of what I lay out on these pages depicts a part o my life that few in my life know about. It is like a secret release. It is the conversations had with the counselor, behind closed doors; it is a safe place.
I wondered today what would happen if the people I spend the most time with – my coworkers and acquaintances – stumbled upon this blog and read through the posts about heartache and confusion, about fear and what I am learning, about faith and life and belief.
Would their idea of me change with all this new information?
Would they think I am silly or naive or trite?
Would shedding that layer of mystery be beneficial, or too revealing?
The truth is, these are the pages of my story. Each rambling set of questions and mess of misunderstanding is what is leading me into tomorrow. Each time I write that I can’t get over a boy, I am telling the truth and writing a page that will lead to more freedom.
I would like to think I write free from the hindrances of feedback, but I think about who might read my words all the time. I choose them wisely so not to dishonor or harm. I craft them to best communicate what I am thinking or feeling or questioning. At least the best I know how.
So, why the fear that I will have to answer to it? That I will have to explain myself?
I don’t have an answer for this. I feel that the Disapproving Groupies I wrote about a few months ago have added a member – a conspiracy theorist that warns me that all secrets will be revealed in the wrong settings, to embarrass me and shame me.