A letter to those that know me

To my friends and family, acquaintances and colleagues who might come across this blog: I want you to know why I am writing. I have been writing since I was 6 years old. Those diary entries were about school yard games, a friend who lied to me, and eventually about my mom getting cancer. Writing in my diary was how I screamed without screaming. I filled so many diaries with my secret voice, it started to diverge from the one that sang in the choir and laughed with friends. It grew like Jack’s beanstalk and I kept it hidden away, afraid it was too grotesque for the real world. I’ve often felt like there was a “real me”, the one atop the beanstalk, accessible through my writing or behind my teenage slammed door. And even that inner voice couldn’t mouth into words the ugliest wounds I had.

So you may not recognize this person writing, even if you’ve known me my whole life. I haven’t lied to you, I just haven’t shown you my whole self. I caught on pretty early to the type of girl who people wanted to be around; cheerful, friendly, playful, fun. Screaming tends to frighten off friends, worry parents, get in the way of achieving all those things that make one an Excellent Human Being.

At some stage I even fled like Jack from my own voice, chopped down the beanstalk and buried this inner version of me. It happened unbeknownst to me, swept into adulthood with its outer quests for self-definition. I’ll be a doctor – no, a teacher – a girlfriend – independent – party girl – career woman – strong. I still had a secret me, but I thought she’d be easier to ignore if I kept myself too busy to write. Besides, alcohol can tend to wounds too – a nightlife does wonders to alleviate self-pity. So does self-mutilation, and a constant race against impostor syndrome.

There were one or two people who recognized that my writer’s voice was the one that let me be whole. Teachers. Mrs. Geh, whose belief in my writing etched itself in my psyche, when, in 5th grade, she announced to the whole school that I’d have my name on the spine of a book one day. Mrs. Andre-Barrett who told me that dropping her Creative Writing class to get higher grades in Biology was selling my soul. I don’t know if either of them were right, but I have held onto those words like a lifeline. Hoping that they would lead me to discover this person I both ran from and searched for.

I’m going to write honestly. It’s time to put those ugly things into words. I am terrified. My whole body feels like a cage, like an exposed nerve, when I imagine what might happen: my words might hurt people. I’m afraid of writing about my culture(s), my family, my trauma, my society. I am afraid to alienate people with my ideas and my questions. I am afraid to anger and upset people with my truth.

If I dig deeper, that fear is of being rejected, being unloved and abandoned by those I’ve charmed into knowing me. I’ve drawn people close with a half-version of me; will they leave when I uncover the whole one? See how one’s imagination can run away with itself.

I take a deep breath. If I shake this thought, I know what might be possible: a reunification of self. A stitching together of inner and outer; connectedness; freedom. And within this, the little seed of hope: that my inner voice might reach others who feel abandoned and alone, and set them free as well. I want nothing more than to be my most joyful, to make others laugh and dance all night to heart-thumping jams. And I wish that for everyone, especially if their wounds are raw and open. Their voices knotted silent, or their diary pages shredded by the weight of pressures unrelieved. This is why I’m writing. I hope you’ll stay.