Last week I read a post that completely unravelled me. It was one of those innocent moments when something catches your eye…
And somehow the words slip past your defence and turn you inside out.
I wrote poetry as a young girl. Copious diary entries and stories and poems.
At the age of about eleven, my best friend and I shared a little boy crush. Even then, I knew it was a case of displaced affection. But I played the part, and wrote a swooney love poem. Nathan, I think, was his name.
It was an innocent enough poem. All soft, melting sighs for the beautiful eyes and a wish for that one stolen kiss…
My poems were my prized possession. Carried around in school uniform pockets, re-read and re-worked until the scraps of paper fell apart.
Or until my mother found them.
I still remember the bitter, hateful look on her face.
“Disgusting!!” she spat, as if it had a taste. “I will not have that Filth in this house!!!” Tore it to shreds and threw it in the flames of the combustion stove.
It was the moment, or one of them, when Love became something rank and vile. A dirty little secret, to be hidden in words that never see the light of day.
Writing became the place I bury things. The most important things – hate, anger, pain. And the source of all the trouble – Love.
I learned to hide my love and affection, which also meant my writing, very well.
This post is officially my 53rd post, which means I’ve been blogging for a year.
Bringing my words, and my heart, out into the public has been one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.
Yet, strangely, also one of the most transformative.
Each one of you, whether you know it or not, has encouraged me to keep going. And with each week, to be a little bolder. A little braver. A little bit more personal.
Opening ourselves involves risk. It takes us down uncertain paths and, truthfully, I’ve lost my way a little bit of late.
But sometimes, maybe that’s just what we need to find ourselves again.
Coming back, I realise – I’ve been hiding under the pretence of ‘inspirational blogger’ to shy away from the topics that move me most.
They’re not always pretty. They hurt. They confront.
They also purify.
This last year, blogging has been the only thing between me and quitting writing altogether. And every day I hide myself, I die a little bit inside.
As Nurse Jackie recently taught me:
“You’re only as sick as your secrets.”
It’s the opposite of what love is all about.
So, going forward, if you notice a raw edge and the occasional ‘f’ word appear. I hope you will forgive me and understand…
It’s all in the name of Truth. Authenticity. And this messy little thing called Love.
Anyone ever tell you to hide your Love? Did you listen?