There has been a strange sense of wondering if I should be telling this part of my story.
What’s healing for me and therapeutic in telling may not be what most want to read. Granted, some understand and some get what is going on in my head. But I wonder how many are really tired of what they think is whining everyday.
I write. An obscene amount of people read. A few comment.
And I love those comments. They mean the world to me.
But i wonder what the silent readers are thinking.
Sometimes, I will get an email out of the blue. They read something and they connected or it reminds them of someone they had in their life.
For a second I get to touch their world.
It’s been hard because communication isn’t the easiest thing I’ve learned to do. I’ve had to get around the feeling that people are listening for me to make mistakes. I can’t explain what it does to a person like me to have the gift of quick speech stolen.
So, since I can’t speak like I’d like to, I write.
But maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe it isn’t the healing tool I thought it was.
It might be a way of whining to a group that feels obligated to listen.