Emotional reserve is the new black.

I figured out why I'm having
a hard time getting thoughts
out of my head and on to the screen.
I'm afraid to write here.
Still.

Honestly, I've been afraid to write
pretty much anywhere
for well over a year.

I have my reasons, and they're sensible:
In my old blog, I wrote about myself
as though I'd taken a dare
to write down everything
I was afraid to speak.
And because I made those
dangerous truths public,
recorded, accessible,
someone was able to use
my inner life against me.

I made it easy for people to hurt me.
I told them how to do it.

I've had my fill of
feeling foolish and heartbroken.
Why wouldn't I be afraid
to write that way again?

Trouble is, I don't know
how to write any other way.
I mean, I don't know how to
write anything compelling enough
to be worth reading without
games of Truth or Dare
where I risk myself.

Some people might recommend
a switch to fiction at this point.
Yeah. Like inviting people
into my quotidian consciousness
isn't self-exposure enough--
come on over and take a gander
at my sex fantasies and nightmares,
and maybe a pathetic unfulfilled
dream or two.

I'll pass. For now, anyway.

When I started keeping a blog,
I knew there were risks involved
in writing publicly about my
secrets, even though then as now
I kept my anonymity.
I realize that the protection
my web name grants me is
largely illusory.
And I didn't publish my writing
with the hope that no one would read it.

I thought I could innoculate myself
against the harmful side effects
of wanton truth-telling
by reserving my harshest criticism
and my most clear-eyed skepticism
for my description of myself
and my own motives.
And when I wrote about other people,
I thought about them reading my words.
I wanted to be able to stand by
everything I wrote, should I
someday be called to account.
Even if what I wrote
was painful or humiliating
to myself or the people I love.

I don't think I ever fully
acknowledged how much I wanted
to be called to account
for my writing.
I courted exposure.
I chipped away at my anonymity,
first with photos,
then by attending a Blogher conference,
then telling family members
and work friends
about my site.
I did this, even though
the self-consciousness it caused
didn't help my writing.

My posts became increasingly infrequent.
And what I did manage to write
felt zombified--
words like the walking undead,
twitching and dully moaning
and longing to eat my brains.

I think I was using my writing
to bully my shyness.
My posts cried Uncle before I did.

The ultimate arrival
of my self-exposure
shouldn't have been surprising--
though it was just as painful
and humiliating as I'd feared.
The real surprise was the aftermath--
emerging from the crisis
to find both my marriage
and my self-knowledge
stronger for having been tested.

As Dies Iraes go,
it could have been worse.

Fantasies of Armageddon seem
often to center around
the beauty of a world wiped clean.
The space I'm in isn't quite that.
The detritus of old hurts
and misunderstandings swirl around
and pile up in leeward corners.
It's kind of a mess.
At least now when I look around
I don't feel the dark urge
to light a match and
blow it all to smithereens.

I just feel afraid.

But in the gray fug
of uncertainty and inertia,
fear can prove a useful compass.
Moving toward the source of fear
seems to increase exponentially
my chances of stumbling across
Something Worth Writing About.
Running as fast as I can
in the opposite direction
has never gotten me anything
but lost among soul-less words
limping their way endlessly
to oblivion.

Talk about scary.

I still believe in writing dangerously.
The adrenalin rush of telling the truth
feels too akin
the simple joy of being alive
to convince me otherwise.

All I need to do is rebuild my nerve.
And this time,
maybe I'll be a little choosier
about who gets to play Truth or Dare.

Comments

[mamatulip]

Goddamn, I love the way you weave words together.

[Nancy]

Wow, I've missed your writing so much.

I've been suffering a kind of crisis of faith with blogging since I found out a neighbor discovered my site (he never comments, but he has my blog e-mail address.) Somehow knowing he might be reading has taken the wind out of my sails. I want to write freely like I once did, but I don't know if it will happen...

Maybe I need to rebuild my nerve too.