There are both rewards and drawbacks to being a blogger whose ravings are so closely tied to her real life. If I want to blather on about something that has piqued my interest, or my anger, I can get on the computer and let fly. The same with something that mystifies me or thrills me. I can type away, trying my best to get the point across about the thoughts or feelings that I am addressing.
There's also the therapeutic benefits, not just to me but to my readers, I hope, involved in sharing difficult times that I have been through. No life is without both highs and lows. I know that there are many people who have been through worse experiences than I have, as well as people who have been blessed with better fortune. I don't write about things in my history in an attempt to make others feel sorry for me. It goes far beyond that. Sometimes writing about things is like telling someone something in order to get it off of your chest. Just sharing the burden of memories that weigh us down can make the load a bit lighter to carry. And there may be someone who reads what I write and can identify with it in some way. Perhaps they have had similar experiences. Maybe they know someone else who has, and never realized how much it could affect that person, because some things are too difficult to say. It's easier to reveal that someone beat you as a child, for example, than to reveal the permanent physical and emotional scars their treatment left on you.
I also love the opportunity to share what I have long called my childlike sense of wonder. I can tell stories of my travels here in my home country, and in Europe. There have been so many moments of beauty in life that sometimes they overflow and demand to be shared. My sense of wonder allows me to be deeply affected by finally meeting my family. It makes me thrilled by dancing around in the yard, surrounded by butterflies. And it makes my brain short-circuit when two wolves come up to me and greet me with a lick on my hand. I am an unusual sort of creature, I guess. I can see the logical, realistic side of things, and the magical, beautiful, charmed side as well.
I have many stories left to share, and I look forward to writing them. But I am bothered by the stories that remain untold. There are so many things that I would love to share, but simply can't. There are tales of betrayal, of lies told, and then more lies told. There are stories of jealousy born of insecurity, and the lack of knowledge that love grows stronger the more that it is spread around, and that jealousy resulting in threats to cut off contact with me forever. Why do they remain untold? Trent and I were talking about this just a couple of days ago.
I wonder if part of it is because those who have experienced real pain aren't always willing or eager to inflict pain on others. Although someone may have hurt me deeply, making them feel pain as well is not something that I want to do. How could I, knowing how terrible it feels? The fact that the person in question isn't even reading my blog makes no difference to me. What if someone who knows them reads my posts? What if it changes their feelings about that person, even though they were not the ones wronged? Worse still, what if my stories about lies told and wrongs done get back to others who have been lied to without realizing it? What then? How could I deal with the guilt if my story was relayed to someone who might react abusively?
So I carry some things silently inside me. Of course I share them with my husband, who gets angry and upset about his wife being ill-used. I know that there are moments, very brief ones, when his anger makes him want to say, "Go ahead, write about it. It serves them right." But he understands why the stories can't be told. A small chance of hurt or retribution is large enough to stop me from telling all, or in some cases, telling anything. So be they large or small, the stories remain untold.