Confession: when someone reads my blog and comments, I love it. When someone wants to talk about my blog in person, I sometimes want to hide in the bathroom.
It is crazy.
I am both desperate to be heard and at the same time terrified to be seen. I am both that girl on the stage confidently telling her story and her secrets and that girl in the back of room in the tan sweater hiding her hands in her sleeves.
Every time I put words together in Yoke--I am putting little pieces of my very truth on display. These entries are more honest than my Facebook status. Entries are typically unedited. And each one, no matter how jovial, shows off a piece of my soul.
This is my art.
And some nights, when I am plugging away on a piece of my book or toying with a raw, honest entry about something in my life, I get myself into such a state that I cry. And then I pray. And then sometimes, I chug wine. Or eat candy. Or engage my husband or the dog in an intense debate. And then cry some more.
There is so much unpublished. There may be too much I shared. I don't know. But I do know, that something inside me drives me to share. Something will not allow me to the girl in the back of the room--I was her, once. And I hated her.
Despite it all, every time I share a link, I am filled with terror.
Because telling your truth is a difficult fucking thing. It is a cry in the night to liked minded souls--it is a prayer that you won't be alone in your life path. It is a hopeful reach into thin air for a familiar hand.
This experiment in truth telling has taught me many things: to appreciate those willing to share their bits and pieces whether through words or song or music or paint. To know that my truth is not the only truth. To recognize that no matter how confident I appear--to share true pieces of myself is scarier than speaking in front of hundreds of people. To hope, always, that someone will grab my hand.
And when they grab it, to keep quiet about it at a party. I am not quite ready for all that public chatting yet.