It is 3:51 AM. I cannot sleep. I cannot leave this page alone. I am petrified of my own words.
Somehow I was able to find the moments of clarity necessary to string these words into sentences, but these are not just any words. They are dragged from the depths of me.
A million fears have surfaced since I made my first post. I fear my own inadequacy as a writer. I fear the impact my thoughts might have on others. The most horrifying of all, though, is the reality of what I am doing. With each sentence, I am attempting to translate my inner world into something comprehensible to others. I am rendering myself naked in these passages.
Years of self-hatred have led me to hide myself, buried in fear that the ugly truths about me would be revealed. If I was completely myself in the presence of others, they would discover the worst truth of all: I am a bad person. I have always thought myself fundamentally bad. Worthless to the core. A drain on society and on the ones I love.
I have been working in therapy to convince myself that this belief is merely a symptom of my disease and of the traumatic experiences that triggered it. I do know, intellectually at least, that self-blame is a symptom. Still, I have believed that I am shit my entire life. Can I really be wrong?
This project flies in the face of all of my instincts. I would much prefer to hide. But this is the battle in front of me, and I can’t possibly run away now. I have to confront my beliefs. I have to keep screaming to the world that I have something to offer, so that someday I might actually hear it and believe it myself.
My journey is a human one, and as such there are parts of it that are universal. There are also parts that are particular to my culture, my gender, my age, and my disability. I don’t know which pieces of my journey are worth capturing in writing, and my tendency is to think that none of it is worth reading. Still, there is a seed of sorts that was planted in me years ago by a very kind psychologist. I have been watering the damn thing for years, and I think it has finally begun to grow. I think this because today, even after examining all of my fears, I am writing. I am opening myself to you so that we both might gain something in the process. If you are reading this, you are bound up in this healing process with me. Expression is only half the interaction; reception and interpretation will always be individualized. The reader will always be a part of the story. And maybe, just maybe, it’s a good story.