I’ve been writing on my Tumblr lately a lot more than over here. In my brain, WordPress and Tumblr are very different — this blog is for the real writing, the note-worthy things, the profound things, the helpful things. Tumblr is for the throw-away things, the unimportant things, the things that could get me branded as being too emotional, too raw, too unsavory.
But maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I shouldn’t divide my life and my thoughts into these categories, into profound and mundane, worthwhile and throw-away. Is any part of our lives really throw-away?
I am a logical being. I am also an emotional being. I’ve tried to compartmentalize myself for as long as I can remember, and the result is that I feel shattered.
I hurt. Things that happened long ago still hurt, and they incapacitate me sometimes. And I try to keep that to myself so much, because I fear the words of the well-meaning who tell me that my feelings and my reactions are not good, that I am not good, that if I would just do things a certain way and think a certain way and believe a certain way and BE a certain way that everything would be okay. Sometimes I think what they really mean is that they wouldn’t have to hear about things that make them uncomfortable, so will I just be quiet, please.
But it’s not just the sexual assault that hurts. It’s a million little things that I’ve taken for granted, it’s the belief that I ought to allow myself to be controlled by others, it’s the belief I’ve had my entire life that I am not important and that my voice is inappropriate and that my thoughts and questions are best left unspoken to burn away at my heart and brain and sanity.
I’m so hesitant. Some people see it. Many don’t. But I am. I’m hesitant and afraid, and I always have been. Sharing myself is so difficult. I’d much rather listen for fear of over-sharing, for sharing so much that I make people hate me as much as I hate me.
I’m pretty good at gentleness with others, particularly those in pain. (I admit that my gentleness often falters at anger or controversy.) But with myself, I am merciless and cruel. It’s a combination of the merciless and cruel things people have said to me that have etched themselves on the walls of my brain and my heart, and the fact that I demand so much of myself that when I perceive something that I’m not doing or thinking or being “right,” — like not healing from hurt or getting over anxiety or — I punish myself wretchedly.
I’m not sure what the purpose of this post is, other than honesty and openness. And a plea for gentleness. I crave gentleness and understanding.