I’ve become more and more secluded in my own thoughts and my inner reality that I am less and less able to write here, mainly because I used to be open about everything. But I’ve been violated so much by people who’ve had access to my writing, that I’m just scared of it. I still feel desperately drawn to writing, and actually most of the time I’m writing in my mind, which is like thinking I guess, but not quite: I think about the words chosen and ideas presented, how everything should be brought up and phrases that would act as corollaries of my thinking. But I don’t write anything down, or most in any case, and it ends up floating away.
When I say that I’ve been violated, I don’t mean just this blog. I have a number of places where I write too, notebooks, notepads, my phone, freaking post-its, and even random papers I’ll never see again. And it feels like every little corner, every aperture I’ve decided to dedicate to a certain kind of writing, has been broken.
Last time it was my dreams journal. I slept in one morning only to wake up later with a very upset BF. He had found it and read parts of it. He said he truly believed it was ok, as I always share my dreams with him anyways. But of course, he had to go and read the spicy dream I had with someone other than him about a naughty video chat that never happened. Had he bothered to follow up on his sneakiness, he’d turned the page and discovered I usually write my feelings on the dreams I have, and what I had down there was: confusion, sadness, and pity for the guy at the other end of the screen. Once I was done explaining I did not use that notebook to write things that have actually happened, as he was so anxious about, I didn’t have the strength to carry on and confront him about invading my privacy like that. Of course he said how sorry he was and that he’ll never do it again. I believe him. But I still can’t take that notebook and write my dreams in there any more, the charm it had is gone, there’s no magic in that place for me.
I used to feel like writing was what liberated me from the world I don’t want to be in most of the time. And now, instead, I feel like I’m only creating ammunition that’ll be used against me somewhere in the future. And those bullets are like the one made of silver to be used against werewolves, there’s nothing that can hit me harder or deeper than my own writing.
I’m dry, and when I’m not I’m just to scared to write anymore because of the exposure it almost inevitably means at some point. And it sucks.
I’m sorry I haven’t been answering to comments on my posts lately. I do read them, always, and they mean a lot to me and I’m thankful for your insight, it’s just been hard to hit the ball back. But I’m working on it 😉