When I began writing in earnest the first time (and the second), I masked my personal pain by sticking to fiction. It felt safe because, under that label, I had freedom to adjust people and situations so they weren't true, or present true situations as though they were false. I created a bubble for myself. A net to fall back on in case anyone came forward and accused me of sharing too much.

But the truth kept eating at me. My writing suffered. Twice, I shut down my blogs and stopped trying to publish. I have a 192 page thesis of short stories that is quite good, but I've never shopped around. Why? Those were the stories I wanted to tell. Each holds nuggets of my personal life experience. But none of them are truly true. Which meant no matter how many different sets of eyes read my words, I would never be seen.

When we grow up abused, we grow up silenced. We learn to stay out of the light, to follow the rules, to people please, to keep quiet. Fiction was my way of staying silent. I tried to write through rape, violence, fear, you name it. There was no release. In fact, I kept writing the same stories over and over.

It is said the third time is the charm. For me, that is accurate. The third time I launched [my blog[(honeyquill.com), I made a commitment to myself and to the readership who have loyally followed me from platform to platform; I promised to tell the truth.

There is nothing more terrifying than being honest about the traumas we have experienced, especially when we know those who harmed us will see them. My reasons for doing so were varied. Top on the list were the need to write through my trauma, to let others know they weren't alone by sharing, and be witnessed. By writing my truth, I broke the golden rule of abuse. I was no longer silent.

There was immediate pushback. My family vacillates from being proud to being humiliated. They believe I share too much about myself, them, my children. That's why I always ask myself if what I am writing is necessary and helpful before hitting go.

I am not out to shame anyone. I am breaking my shame. The cycle of abuse that is inside me stops with me.

Writing honestly is hard, vulnerable work, but it's worth it. Every time I share (and always with compassion) a piece of how I became the person I am, I am claiming a power I was long denied. A power no one should be denied. I am defining who I am and choosing to make my impact a heartbeat instead of a strike.

I understand that those who hurt me will feel stricken. That is not the goal. And because I know that, I can keep writing and healing with love for myself and, yes, even love for those who did me harm. That is not now. It was then. I am not the child that was hurt, I am the woman that is healing.

Where are you in your story?

images from pixabay.com

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