When I started this little (big) adventure, I figured it would take maybe a couple months. That I would write down some high points and low points, and move on. I had no idea that it would become this all-encompassing behemoth of life altering memories. If I entered this thing half-assed, I certainly am not coming out the other side that way.
For the most part, this story has been the central focus in my life. That is, until I shut it down completely, about a month ago. I have that type of personality that is “all in.” I jump from obsession to obsession. From art, to music, to reading, etc…
When I came up with this idea, it danced around my head for a few months, until it was catapulted to my “latest obsession”, primarily because of the stories of two other writers I follow online. Cody Snowe (Twinergy) and Comicality (gayauthors.com.) So I jumped in. Head first.
I’m well aware of the catharsis that is commonly associated with writing personal material. History. Memories. I was hoping for some closure and understanding through this process. What I got, was far from cathartic.
The act of prying open my well sealed closet, and deeply buried memories, brought me sadness and regret. Shame. By the time I completed the last chapter of book one, I was in a serious funk. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t do much of anything but think of how much of an idiot I was. How I could take a collection of petty, youthful problems, and nearly throw it all away. They say “live and learn.” Well, I almost didn’t give myself that chance.
No life is a completely open book. We all have our secrets. I had protected my attempted suicide, tucked away so deeply. A very select few knew about it. Mostly, those who were there. The ones I couldn’t hide it from. I never told anyone I met online. I’ve never told anyone who I met after moving in with my uncle. My cousin doesn’t even know.
Then, I wrote about it. I exposed my greatest secret. It didn’t make me feel good. It didn’t make me feel bad either. It just makes me feel different. I’m one of them. The stigma and all. I dare anyone of you to tell me you don’t look at me a little different now. I don’t blame you. It’s a natural reaction. I won’t try to predict your unique judgements and thoughts or feelings on it, but it definitely changes things. Changes people and relationships.
I seriously thought about ending my writing venture with the end of book one. It ripped me wide open and took me some time to put myself back together. The thing is, the story doesn’t end there. It actually gets worse, before getting better. I feel this need to throw myself to them wolves, yet again. Willfully unzip the shroud around my fragile heart and take the pain. I survived it once, I’ll survive it again.
I have no illusions about this reaching a larger audience. I do realize this is a cozy little corner in the big picture. But maybe, just maybe…somewhere there is another silent reader, like myself, who is reading this. And maybe this reader can identify with my story. Maybe somewhere within these untrained words, there are a few phrases or ideas, that can lend a hand, or a cyber hug. Words that say, “I’ve been there. You’ll get through this. I’m on your side. I know what it’s like. I’ve been there. Choose life.”