I’ve got a lot to say, I do. When I started this blog there were things that I wanted to fill these pixels with, and I was excited about all of it.
Every day I read something or hear something about privacy online, and I am reminded that this place is not a vacuum. There are people reading this who know me, and there are people who might read this who would figure out who I am.
I am bubbling over with things to write about, and they are amazing things. I just can’t share them here. Not right now, anyway.
This lack of ability to be forthright has been fucking with my head. I sit down to write something and the blinking cursor stares me down. Who will this hurt? Will this hurt me? Will this damage some portion of my life?
I finally give up in frustration, and there is so much left unsaid. So. Much.
I remembered something over the weekend. I remember that I had a diary once. Diaries are those things we had before blogs. They were little books with pathetic little locks that were supposed to keep all of our secrets but never did.
I had one of those little books with the lock once, but I never wrote in it. I always seemed to be writing in spiral bound notebooks, all the time. I’ve got hundreds of those types of notebooks today.
The summer after I turned 13 I went on vacation with my grandparents. Earlier that spring I had realized a very tender moment, sharing an incredibly romantic kiss with the eldest son of my mother’s best friend. It was only once kiss, it was not something we discussed before or after, and there were no promises made. It wasn’t my first kiss, either. It awakened something in me though – a longing for things I didn’t completely understand.
I had recorded all of these thoughts and feelings, as well as other things in my spiral notebook. I was growing up with virtually no privacy, my relationship with my mother was horrible, and I did what I do – I wrote about it. When I left for vacation I tucked that spiral notebook between my mattress and box spring. By the time I returned my mother had found it, read it, and memorized her most favorite passages.
It was hard to say which she found more reprehensible: my feelings that she was a silly, wretched woman, or the hesitant sexuality brought on by the son of her dearest friend. I was at once a horrible daughter and slut, though I’d never had more than a kiss or a passing thought of hatred.
I didn’t write, except for school, for many years after that. I had learned the power of words and the power of secrets, and both had made my life a living hell.
I know the tentative nature of privacy. I am torn between wanting to share what’s in my heart and wanting to keep it to myself.
I’ve got my little spiral notebook, of a sort, and I’m writing there. I’ll still be here, and if you’re still reading, I promise not to hold back everything. It’s an odd feeling writing something and not hitting “Publish” at the end. I believe that ultimately, writing is meant to be read. I have no doubt that the notebook I’m filling up will find it’s way before someone else’s eyes one day.
Maybe even yours.