The Stories I Cannot Tell
Not today, but someday...
I wrote this in March of this year.
How many of us live with stories we cannot tell? Secrets that yearn to be spoken, but threaten the status quo? We each have had profound experiences that have shaped us in various ways, but we keep quiet about them because if we open our mouths, someone is going to get hurt or offended or attack us in some way.
As a writer (including songs and poetry), to tell my hidden stories to just a friend or two never feels like enough. I feel the deep yearning to put my life into words and then share it with the world. To express is my gift. To not express certain deeply impacting parts of my experience feels suffocating. How can I tell my general life story when I keep leaving out vital pieces? No life is compartmentalized. Every experience touches and influences all others.
I've wrestled with this over the years. I've questioned my need to divulge my personal life and experiences to the general public. Is it some need to be witnessed and validated somehow? And if so, is it appropriate? And what is "appropriate" anyway and why should I care?
I am an artist. Artists compulsively take the vast material of their lives and create something with it- and often, the messier the experience, the more potent the art. I have so much messy life material that I have forced myself to express in cryptic forms even though I'm dying to just come right out and speak it plainly. I'm super poetic, but I'm also quite blunt. My writing is only good because I can be honest.
Sometimes I wish I could get away with being super mysterious and cryptic, to keep everyone guessing, to never give a direct answer, to wander along with a wink in my eye and maintain some ridiculous poker face. But that's not who I am. I must throw back the curtains and expose my experiences for exactly what they are.
I've resigned myself to silence or cryptic code on so many topics because to speak, and speak plainly, would hurt some of the people I love the most. I am trying to protect them from me by hiding some of my stories. They didn't ask to be a part of my life's art projects and confessional writings. And sometimes the person I am protecting is myself. I cannot afford the backlash some of my stories may provoke.
I've been told I'm brave for sharing so much of my life so plainly. But I don't feel brave at all. All those things I've shared with you may feel like a big deal, but they are nothing compared to the deeper stories still hiding in the dark. Maybe one day I will be brave enough to share them, and maybe you will no longer call me brave, but instead call me selfish and sick.
One day my darkest stories will be told. Maybe after I'm dead, who knows. But I've always known my life has never been my own, and that it is a gift for the world. I cannot control how others receive it, but I know there are some literally dying to receive it. I promise myself right now, I will make sure all my stories are told one day because that is why I am here.