As a writer I need to write about all aspects of my life: the good, the bad and the ugly. I need to feel like I can express myself freely. When the writing is good, it doesn’t come from me so much as through me; I’m a vessel through which the words flow and I just try to catch up to the thoughts racing through my mind and get them all on paper.
The writing hasn’t flowed like that for some time. I’ve been blocked. I’ve blocked myself. I’ve deliberately avoided writing about certain aspects of my life — namely, the darker ones — or I’ve written about them infrequently and shared them with almost no one. Partly to spare other people, but mostly to spare myself.
When you reveal certain things about your life, people look at you differently. I don’t want people to look at me differently. I don’t people to be offended. I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want advice or suggestions on how to get over my grief; it’s quite possible that by the time I’ve shared my writing with other people I’ve already gotten over the bulk of my grief. And maybe what I’m most afraid of is total silence, no reaction at all, my words rendered insignificant in a sea of bloggers talking about nail polish, Justin Bieber and Reality TV.