I have a tendency to avoid sharing things that worry or make me afraid for the future. Instead, I attempt to tell stories that just so happen to be snipped from my life as I feel so inclined to share. The truth of the matter is I’m concerned what would happen if I were to truly make this a memoir space.
A space where anyone could read about highly personal things about who I am and what I’m all about.
Ironically, when I started this blog, all of my posts were excruciatingly personal. Though only myself and two close friends ever knew it existed; I blocked it from search engines. After growing up a little more, that’s when I decided to keep it public, but at the cost of excluding truly intimate details of my life.
To be honest, I have no idea what I’m worried about when whether I write or not is of no excitement or disappointment to anyone… Correction: I DO know what I’m worried about.
The answer lies in my ego. My potential for success. My desire to leave my mark on the world.
If I were to achieve any manner of notoriety, this blog would have already been claimed in my name. What I write here could affect the opinions of those who admire me, and fuel the naysayers that are a staple of true success. At the heart, writing freely about my past exposes memories that only belong to me, but would become public domain the moment I press “Publish.”
I would like to share more, but I don’t know what I’m willing to share. My ego constricts me when I have already gone as far as six weeks on HRT. Seriously, why should I even care who knows what about me? Is there anything in my life that could be turned against me, the storyteller?
Indeed, these are the difficult questions that plague my mind daily. Only, I’ve never given them form until now. My voice to tell my story is my own.
So I must decide if my life is worth giving voice to. And by reading this, you have just bore witness to sweet rub of my own irony.
**written on my phone**