I’ve been toying with the idea of whether or not to explore some of the things that hurt me in my past, within a poetry collection.
Writing the history in prose. Explaining the feelings in pretty metaphors and imagery. Conveying my experience in the hope someone who’s been there reads and feels recognized. Memorialized.
But then something stops me.
Is it fear?
I’m not sure.
It’s like an itch in the back of my skull, deep inside where I can’t reach. A primal, old fear of reliving the past in the present. Like I’m scared if I go too deep, I may uncover even more memories my mind has shielded from coming to the surface.
Even still, there’s a shift in the conversation, or strangers I see, or dreams that come in the night, and like a crack of lightning, riding fast from the sky to the earth below, I remember.
I remember another fight. Another letdown. Another time I was made to feel so powerless and inadequate, like my entire existence was a burden or a mistake needing to be corrected.
Do I really want to actively try and remember all of that? Do I really want to summon the memories and the associated emotions I felt in those moments and commit them to the page?
I am afraid.
I’m afraid, and I want to protect myself. I live in peace now. And it’s peace I want to have for the rest of my days. But maybe I need to disturb my own peace – just a little – for the greater good.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve read a book, comfortable in a chair with hot tea and nothing more important to do in the world. Just me and the text.
Yet, I come across a passage or a phrase, and suddenly I am seen. Recognized. The writer has captured an exact experience or emotion or understanding I’ve felt. And a connection is made. A revelation that there’s at least one person out there in the world who’s felt the exact same way I did. Or reacted the same as me under similar circumstances. That epiphany never fails to conjure a smile.
Would there be potential to offer the same to someone else? God, I’d hope so. Even reaching just one person would make any struggle that may emerge worthy of any subsequent pain.
And as I sit, typing out stream of consciousness, I’m convincing myself that maybe this is a good idea after all. The least I could do is try. If it gets too hard, I can post what I have here and let the words free into the world.
But if I can be strong enough to do it, finish it, and bind it in a book, then maybe it will help just one person. And one person is enough.
Have you ever written anything that felt like cracking your heart open? Like willingly stepping into flame? Or looking into a mirror that only reflects the worst of your life back?
Did you finish the work? And was it worth it?
I’d love to hear your advice and/or experience, if you’re willing to share.
I’m not sure people understand how brave the act of writing can be. What it demands of your mind and your heart. Especially when it’s about a topic that elicits such pain from the depths of your subconscious, from the experiences so deeply rooted within your soul you can never fully cut them out.
If you have written anything that hurt, I applaud you. Maybe your experience will give me the last push I need.
Happy writing,
Kayla
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