Posted on | September 24, 2012 | 16 Comments
When I first started blogging, I was hell bent on being honest. All the time. About everything. I talked about depression and anxiety, about family problems, about my fears for my son and about raising him in the world. I talked … at length… about divorce, and heart break, and anger, and rebuilding; and I never really thought about there being any repercussions to my honesty. I looked at this space as “Consequence Free:” the land of non-committal; my world of no responsibility.
And it was freeing to be so free with my thoughts and my emotions.
It was freeing to be so… me: in front of the world yet behind the curtain of my computer screen.
But the longer I write and the more you read, and yes, the older J gets, the more I’ve started to wonder about the words I put here in this space. I’ve wondered about how my truths will affect my reality; about how they will affect J’s reality.
I wonder what will happen if I admit that I cry more than I should, more than I want to and more than I think is healthy. I wonder if I type out how anxious I am about living alone, how I still let J sleep in my bed because it feels safer to have him there beside me with the door locked… I wonder if that will make you, all of you, raise your collective eyebrows and offer semi-unsolicited advice. I wonder if I admit to feeling overwhelmed 90% of the time, someone will come and knock on my door and threaten to take away my child. I wonder if I admit to being under-qualified and overworked, I’ll wake up to be underemployed and overly free from the 9-5 chains.
The more I write, the farther into my journey I go, the scarier it becomes to be honest, day to day, minute by heart-wrenching minute.
But I want to be honest here.
I want this to be my space, my place to embrace all my shortcomings so that maybe you can embrace yours. But I have to remember that there may be very real ramifications to the ramblings in this space. YOU have to know that I know there may be real ramifications. I have no one to blame but myself when the going gets tough over something I’ve put out there for any and everyone to see. I have no one to blame but myself when my sharpened words are hurled back at me, when they cut into the tenderest of corners of my heart.
The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing 92% of the time: not here, not as a mom, not as an attorney, and sure as hell not as a woman. I’m struggling every millisecond of every day save for the blissful ten or fifteen minutes between the crazy dreams I have at night. The reality of my situation isn’t rose-colored, it isn’t neatly encapsulated in a 500 word post about poop or forgiveness or, well, being honest. The reality is messy. The truth is ugly.
But if I’m going to come here and write every day or even every other day, I’m going to have to put my fear aside and just be real. Because as ugly as it might be, the truth, as they say, will set you free.
The only real fear lies in not knowing where you’ll be when the cage doors open.