I don't want to write because I don't want this

I don’t want to write this evening. Or, more accurately, I do want to write – I desperately want to write, especially about all the things that are going on right now – but I don’t want to experience the naked vulnerability of feeling exposed to the world, a turtle without its shell, a child without its mum.

I don’t want to write today.

I don’t want to sit here worrying about who is reading and who is not, about whether my dads, my sisters, my brothers, my step-mums, my ex or my boyfriend’s ex have read what I’ve written, whether they’re critical or hurt or angry or disappointed in me. I don’t want to feel the droning buzz in my head, a thousand thoughts crashing into each other as I dress rehearse disaster and imagine what people must be thinking about me. I don’t want to risk the wrath of certain people. I don’t want to be inconsiderate or rude. I don’t want to overstep and I don’t want to overexpose anyone who hasn’t asked to have any part of their story told by me.

So what do I do? What is it that writers do? How do I tell my story when parts of my story involve you?

I know I cannot censor myself, that that is pointless and nullifying. It’s like silently tying up a section of my lungs, preventing myself from being able to really breathe. It is like a little piece of me dies each time I type a line and then delete it because of fear of what other people will think.

I don’t want that. But neither do I want to just ‘fuck other people.’ That isn’t kind. I’m trying to find my way with what to do.

I don’t want to have to worry about whether something I say from the desire to simply tell the fucking honest truth will haunt me for the next four or five years. I don’t want something I write and publish one evening to smack me around the face in five years’ time the way that Huffington Post article has come up again and again and again (and again, and again).

I want to be a writer but I don’t want this.

I don’t want people to say, “So I googled you…”, their voices trailing off into the distance, our eyes making contact and me knowing exactly what they are referring to without even having to ask. I don’t want to have to justify or explain or defend myself. It’s tiring and boring and makes me instantly defensive. I don’t want to live like that.

I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings, and I’m scared that’s what my writing will do. Because I want to tell the truth, and a lot of the truth is messy and messed up, painful and sad, tragic and shameful.

What I’m saying is, I don’t know how to do this today. This is the third blog post I have attempted to write. The first was boring, the second was truthful and the third is pouring out of me in response to my response to writing the second.

I don’t know if I have got what it takes to own my story – especially the parts of my story that involve other people. I want to write about my marriage but I don’t want to hurt my ex more than I already have. I want to write about my upbringing but how the hell do I do that when there are so many people involved, people I love so dearly? I want to write about falling in love and all my dreams for the future, but how do I do that when there are people I love and people they’re connected to involved?

I want to write about my time at school and no I don’t want to change the fucking names. I have already written a piece about my first sexual experience and I was considering sharing it today but I don’t know how, don’t know what all the considerations are, don’t know if I can bring myself to stand in the arena and have people hurl their cheap, razor sharp criticism at me.

This is why I do not write. Because sometimes, to write is to hurl yourself off a cliff edge and to have no fucking clue about what lies below. Is the universe friendly, or not? Is it?!

I’m well aware that there are other ways. Writing under a pseudonym, or turning your experiences into fiction. I’m not sure I want to do either of those.

I’m not sure what comes next.

All I know as I bash out these words is that THIS is what I have written today, and this is what I’ll publish. I’m scared that I don’t have what it takes to do this and withstand the shit show that often comes from being someone who tries to tell the truth. I don’t know if I can do it.

Today, this evening, this is just about all I can do. Thank you for hearing me and for reading. I wonder whether, in some similar or different part of your life, you can relate.

(Image by Joe Beck via Unsplash. Thank you, Joe.)