When I write personal pieces on my blog (which is the majority of my posts!), I don’t write with an audience in my mind. I couldn’t write if I did. It is intensely therapeutic to publish writings that are extremely personal to a potential audience who do not know me (there might be a few exceptions). It is safe precisely because of the anonymity, yet strangers can find something they can relate to in my words, because we are all humans, and similar experiences connect us.
I also keep a journal and write letters. In fact, all my writings are private in nature. For a long time, I thought I couldn’t call myself a writer unless I wrote in an established form of genre, such as fiction or essay. It still sounds pretentious to think I’m a writer, but I am one in the purest sense of the word. I am a person who writes.
I first started a voluntary diary when I was in the sixth grade, and for the next five and a half years, I wrote more or less regularly. I picked it up again after a year and a half, and have kept it up since then.
While journaling has been extremely helpful with keeping my emotions in check and voicing my innermost fears, insecurities, hopes, and dreams, my blog was the place where I would gather my thoughts and try to construct a narrative of sorts. There are especially pieces that go back to my childhood, and today I am so glad that I took the time and often also the pain to deal with the part of my childhood that I’d rather bury and forget.
The past does not forget us, though. It haunts us until we dig it up from the depth of our consciousness, and deal with it in one way or another. Even so, even after a cleansing relief so sharp that it leaves you feeling empty, you will return to the site of digging years later only to find that the pain and the hurt is still partially there.
I have a driving instructor who sometimes reminds me of my father in the worst way possible. For weeks I hadn’t understood my reaction to his reprimands, to that critical tone of his voice. Then it hit me last week as I was doing dishes, just like that. His tone, coupled with his words and expressions sent me spinning back to my childhood and adolescence, and I was again a child or teenager bracing for the verbal blow, anticipating it and yet surprised anew at how deeply it sliced into my heart until I felt like it would stop beating.
I usually don’t advocate poking at old wounds again and again without giving it a chance to heal. Well, I still don’t. But it’s worth examining them just to see whether they are healing as they should, or whether they have become infested again.
My relationship with my father is still very complicated. It has gotten much smoother ever since I opened up a little last year. Since then, it has improved so much that I had forgotten that up until a year ago, I was still being smothered by the past and present hurts.
The incident with my driving instructor brought the past crashing down on my head, but thanks to having worked on the issue on many occasions in the past, I do not have to start from zero. I am not a victim of verbal abuse and parental neglect – not anymore. But it is scary, and quite frankly just plain sad how power the past traumas still can have over me. Maybe because I have never put my past experiences in those terms: traumas. Maybe I am giving my past more power than it deserves. All I can do right now is to validate my feelings of terror and pain, and let them stand for themselves.
I’d like to think that in many ways, writing has saved me. It has helped me to release unhealthy anger, and to bring reason and order to my whirlpool of emotions. However, it can do only so much. After draining the wound, I still have to find ways to treat it and dress it and look after it. But it’s better than letting the wound fester.