I love to write. Writing is a healing process for me. It’s helped me work through many of my journeys in life. I’ve written while I adopted my first son. I’ve written while my twins were near death in a NICU. I’ve written when I was volunteering at an orphanage in Haiti. I’ve written when I was angry after leaving religion. I’ve written when I’ve seen injustices in my small world.
Writing frees me.
Writing helps me process.
Writing helps me find myself.
Writing lets me and others know that we are not alone.
Over the past year I have been suffering. Deeply. My husband has been suffering. Deeply. My boys have been affected but I’m hoping that we have carried most of their suffering for them. Protecting them from the pain that has changed their lives. Our lives.
I have stopped myself from writing about this suffering and pain. I’ve edited and guarded my words. I’ve stopped short of addressing the “incident” that put us in this place because I am filled with fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of judgement. Fear of the persecutors who sit behind their computer screens attacking and attacking until they have destroyed good people. Fear of giving them access back in to my life.
But slowly I am beginning to feel an undeniable need to write. A boiling within me that’s about to bubble over if I don’t get out the words and feelings that are a fire within me.
I am becoming inspired. Inspired by those who have gone before me. Those who have made their voices heard even if it’s in opposition to the majority. I’ve read stories of women standing up against their religions. I’ve cried over lyrics from young men fighting for equal rights. I’ve stood in awe of men and women taking stands that cost them their jobs, their freedoms, their reputations. But they’ve done it because it’s right. They’ve done it because it’s the only way to free themselves. To live within their integrity.
Slowly I am coming to the decision to share because I think the topic is important. Because I think the words need release in order for healing to begin. Slowly I am deciding that the harassment my family will likely receive will be worth the risk of saying the hard things.
But I’m afraid. Afraid in a way that makes my insides cringe, my eyes well up, and my heart to start racing. Afraid in a way that makes me question every small thought and inclination. Afraid in a way that steals a part of me. Every. Single. Day.
I want to live again. I want the freedom to be genuine, real, and to not hide mistakes. I want the freedom to tell the story. I want the freedom to express my opinions about the situation without having to scroll through thousands of hateful words. I want the freedom to move on. I want freedom for me. For Adam. For our boys.
I’m not sure that freedom will ever come from being quiet.
But I know that releasing the words will cost us more pain.
Maybe on the other side of that pain is hope.
I will only know if I take the leap…
But I’m still too scared.