I told myself a while ago that I would never write about the experiences that have proven themselves to be the most painful, difficult, or uncomfortable times in my life. I decided on this early on because I simply didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to feel again what ever it was that I felt during those times. I didn’t want to burden my future self with stories that would surely bring me down if relived. I find those feelings distasteful and almost embarrassing.
Ironically enough, this blog (what ever it is, exactly), has secretly become the cesspool of all those experiences, feelings, and situations that I long to forget. I did the opposite of what I told myself to do.
Reasons for this, possible reasons :
- I can’t let these things go. They are like velcro, and yearn to be ripped off by my hands in the form of writing about them in an attempt to make what ever peace I can with the past and present ?
- I write about them because I cannot bring myself to speak to another about them. I am lip-locked. I am not sure what it is about the idea of talking to someone else about my problems that frightens me. Perhaps it’s a simple answer of privacy and embarrassment, even shame. Perhaps it’s in my genes ?
- I have no sense of self control ?
- I’m a masochist ?
- I can’t trust myself ?