I came across the sentiment recently:
“Please do not write upon this page.”
“Why not?”
As a writer, I love this. As an abuse survivor, it’s a
further call to action. Indeed, writing “on this page” has helped me
heal, time and time again.
But come on, you and I know it’s not that simple, right?
Why is that? What’s stopping us from “writing it
down?”
What are We Afraid Of?
Well, perhaps…
We are afraid of remembering the terror and the pain.
We are afraid of being discouraged:
We are afraid of making it fact (real).
We are afraid writing this down will constitute the entirety
of who we are.
If we have gone through painful trauma and loss, most of the
time, we tend not to want to remember and think about it. We can self-medicate,
self-isolate, avoid, and shut down. Here’s usually where addictions and
unhealthy relationships can factor in. Here’s where we usually want to numb
ourselves. Here’s where we usually don’t want it recorded forever.
“Please do not write upon this page.”
Only, very often, the word, “please” is negated. It is a
demand, not a request.
“Do not write upon this page.”
That demand can come from other people, abusive people, even.
But, perhaps, more significantly, it is self-imposed. We don’t just
plead within ourselves not to make something that is horrific, become permanent
and real for us. We can often demand it not be so.
That’s what I did with some of the deepest traumatic events
in my life. It first started with my eating disorder behavior and then extended
to mistreatment from toxic relationships. I did not want to admit it was real.
For the longest time, I did not record the truth of what I was doing in my
diary. Despite my erratic weight fluctuations, despite the interventions on my
behalf, despite my compromised values and my low self-worth, trusting the wrong
people, believing what those harmful people said to me, I could not accept it
or write about it. I did not want it to be real. I did not want what was
happening to be my life.
Somehow, therefore, I reasoned, that if I could just leave my
voice, through the written word, out of it, it would not exist. Better
yet, I could make every trace of it go away, and rewrite my history, all
by refusing to write at all!
“Do not write upon this page.”
It was a set up for failure. Gradually, my refusal to accept
and express my truth translated into a complete loss of my voice. I mistakenly
believed that not writing the pain down would empower me. I thought I wouldn’t
be held captive by it. I would overcome it. The exact opposite, however, happened
when I refused to write it down. I felt I had no release valve. I was the
silencing jailor.
That’s a hopeless place to reside. I hadn’t counted on that
being the case.
It took me years to first, admit, and then, write
about what happened to me. I convinced myself it didn’t happen, or at least,
wasn’t “that bad.” It was too painful and scary to write about it. The thought
of doing so threatened a certain self-image of myself, one that I did not want
to let go of. That self-image was, largely proclaiming how I was not
messed up. I was not struggling; I had it together. I was “the good
girl.”
Much of the difficulty accepting my truth hinged on the
eating disorder stigma, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. The disorder
was a symptom of something more significant, meaning, my “messed-upness” of
emotional disturbances and unmet needs that were far from neat and tidy, far
from elegant or pretty. And I wanted to look and BE attractive, pulled
together, strong, and immune to having deep-seated problems that, yes, required
professional treatment.
Write It: Why Not?
“…the truth shall set you free.”
John 8:32
Imagination can often be worse than our reality. Living in a
world of catastrophizing and avoiding instead of practicing the radical
acceptance of “what is,” we, perhaps, can feel safer and more in control. Our
self-image is protected.
Or is it?
I’m sure you’ve heard a version of the saying, “the truth
will set you free, but first, it will upset you.” It’s that sense of being
destabilized that can liberate us. It wrecks the lie of human perfection; there
is no such thing. It shocks us out of idealization which can harm us,
especially concerning abusive situations and people. It reminds us that, yes,
life can be brutal, unfair, and painful.
But, while it is these things, we have beauty,
purpose, and value simply being in the world.
“The pen is mightier than the sword.”
Looking at documentation of the good, the bad, the ugly, and
the pretty, can help us to keep things in perspective. Our written word, in the
moment, is a way to release poison and emotion. In hindsight, our written
word can be viewed, perhaps, more objectively, through the lens of time and
“lessons learned.”
You and I don’t need to be Dickinson, Shakespeare, or
Steinbeck. We need to be honest, as ourselves with our lives. It can have
humble beginnings like stabbing the paper passionately because we’re despondent
about our trauma. It can be deeply encoded, cryptic, and mysterious poetry,
whether it rhymes or not.
The writing is first about us, then others. And
if we want to help others, truth, brutal truth, is mandatory. Lies set no one
free, especially if we insist on telling them, or operating with “lies of
omission.”
Everyone is on their own timetable. But knowing there will be
a time when truth is told can be approached as liberating, not imprisoning.
“Therefore,
whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that
which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the
housetops.”
Luke 12:3
It has to do with our perception of it.
Therefore, let’s perceive freedom and liberation as we write.
We deserve both in our lives.
Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse
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