Sometimes I think it is impossible to write without revealing a piece of your soul.
That being said, there are some parts of the soul that are too precious or too painful to reveal.
I started (re)watching Sherlock last night. John Watson sat down to blog and stared at the empty text box. In the next scene, he tells his therapist how wonderfully his writing is going, and she immediately challenges, “You haven’t written a word, have you?”
She then goes on to tell him that he needs to write, that it will be good for him.
Why, I wondered?
Why would baring his soul for just anyone to read be so good?
Why would talking about the agonizing memories and his struggling to readjust to civilian life be so worthwhile?
I spent about a year in therapy, only quitting when I moved to Colorado. I know my therapist never would have recommended taking something so intimate and making it so public.
Depression, sorrow, anger… those aren’t nice things to read.
Those aren’t the articles that Huffington Post or CNN will publish.
Those aren’t the posts that my mother would forward to cousins and family friends.
Those aren’t the entries that I would share on my facebook for my connections to read and judge.
My tears are private.
My questions belong to ears I alone choose.
The truth of my soul is something I only dole out in confidence a bit at a time, always different aspects to different people, never letting anyone get too close, know too much.
The more people know, the more power they have to hurt.
As much as I wish I could be a writer that spoke the truth, gave the nitty-gritty reality, I’m just not.
It’s all so fragile, sometimes it feels like even a whisper could break me.
I like to pretend I have my life together.
Yeah, look at me! I like to look at my high school classmates. Look how different I am from when we were fifteen! I dress well, I travel often, I am extroverted and confident and strong and beautiful. I have a job to be proud of, experiences to dole in the dozens, big dreams I’m setting out to achieve!
But really… I’m not so different.
Because I still think about where I am in comparison to my alma mater.
The scars of my first broken heart still aren’t healed.
Those big dreams are scary.
I don’t look in the mirror and see beauty – I just see an ever-older version of a farm girl from Iowa.
I talk to people and am intimidated.
I travel, but never far enough. Never exotic enough. Never cool enough.
I hold up the world I’ve created, the world I love living in. I hide these thoughts, hide these fears, hide these questions.
But sometimes, I remember it’s all a facade.
Sometimes, something so drastic happens that I remember that my reality is just another beautiful work of fiction.
Sometimes, life hurts like hell.
And so I look at John Watson’s therapist, and with a resounding shout, I say, “Fuck you.”
Because you don’t need to see the rubble behind the mask.