So a crazy thing happens… I first have to brace myself. I think it’s because I am never quite sure how reading what I wrote is going to make me feel.
Sometimes I shock myself and sometimes I feel shame. Shock – because of how much I reveal. Shame – because of how much I reveal. Most of it is mixed admiration and the early makings of an emotional hangover… probably because I am often surprised at what I am willing to admit when I am writing. How vulnerable I truly am.
I also read in between the intention of wanting to be clever… and perhaps, some trace subtext of relief… and just a tinge of satisfaction at being able to write it all.
I often say, many times like an old grandpa with repetitive jokes, that I think the best version of myself is the writer. I allow myself so many freedoms when I am in this space. I give myself lots of room to just be… and this is a gift I seldom give myself when I consider all the other versions of me that are running around.
I like the idea of re-reading what I have written because I have the courage not to be dishonest with myself. In this confessional, I think I am assured of at least one place where I can reflect my truths back. This is not all a bad thing.