When you write for an audience of maybe a dozen people, you’re most likely not going to receive any sort of uproar when you haven’t posted for a while. If we’re being honest, no one probably even noticed I haven't been posting. Hey, no hard feelings. But for the first time, I finally asked myself the question I’ve been avoiding for months: why did I stop posting in the first place?
Truthfully, I’m not very busy. I’m only in three classes, all of them with workloads pretty limited to the nights before the exams. It’s not that I’ve stopped writing. The notes on my laptop are full of both the best and hardest moments I’ve had, with a handful that I could literally copy, paste, and publish right now. And I definitely still have thoughts and feelings I think could be relatable for someone else to read. So if I’m not busy, disinterested, or emotionally dead inside, what's holding me back?
When I logged into my account to write this post you’re reading right now, I opened the “Manage Blog” tab to see my published posts fill the screen. Bored and forgetful, I began reading them for the first time in months. With each return to an old post, my hands felt increasingly shaky and my face burned even hotter. How could I just let these live here, online, for anyone to see?
I was embarrassed for the person who so mindlessly posted about her abandonment, fears, and insecurities. I was embarrassed for myself. I started subtracting the amount of times I thought I had viewed the posts from the amount of total views, desperately trying to figure out exactly how many people had seen the most vulnerable versions of myself. As I worked on my calculations, I was horrified by my reaction and realization to why I had given up on a project I used to be so excited about: shame.
I was a big, fat fraud. The whole reason I started sharing my writing was to encourage people to talk or even just think about more difficult emotions they’ve struggled with. And now there I was, contemplating permanently deleting my posts in hopes that they would be forgotten about as easily as they were published in the first place.
When I started this blog at the beginning of the year, I was at an all-time low. The little bit of self-worth I clung to was contingent on pulling myself out of bed every morning and eating something more than jello. Somehow, in a time of such darkness, it felt so much easier to put everything out there. I not only posted what I wrote, but even voluntarily shared it with people, shamelessly admitting, “Hey, here I am, hurting.” My writing became a way to prove to myself and to the world that I was still a living, breathing human being.
Now that life has moved on and every day isn’t so painful, I’ve become guilty of the very thing I started this blog to counteract: the pride of assuming anyone could possibly be above pain.
Shame demands that we feel inadequate, unworthy, and outright stupid. While certain emotions can be embraced and overcome, shame needs to be actively fought. So rather than fall prey to toxic expectations and delete everything I’ve ever written, I’m going to continue to fight shame the only way I know how: by posting about it.
Maybe someone will read my posts and write them off as dramatic or embarrassing, pretty much exactly as I did to myself when I revisited my blog earlier today. But even if just one person can read something I’ve experienced and relate or think or smile, then it was worth it. Even if I'm the only person who sees the words I write, then I will know I'm one step closer to living as unapologetically myself.
So this post is a commitment to both my tiny audience and to myself to continue going through life as honest as I can be, as well as a note to shame that it has absolutely no place here at all.