Confessing My Truths

Confessing My Truths

9/19/2014

At what point does the confession become too much?  The unabashed perspective?  The clear and biting truth in all of its visceral glory? Confession is good for the soul, but does that apply to an audience or only if God is listening?

All too often I’ve found that a taste of my truth is too much.  Too bitter, too raw, too real.

Most of my life I have written to get to the core of it, to ferret the truth of it out… in seven versions of the same story; all of them mine. 

Sometimes I’m sharing as a form of absolution, sometimes approval. Sometimes I tack on some whip smart sarcasm to add humor to already traumatic events because no one should have to experience the real truth.  Not in the same way that I did. Maybe someone can reap the benefit of my experience without ever having to suffer the same end result.

Sometimes I write to celebrate the ache in the loss of love or of life to sing to the soul; to wrap myself around it, to touch it.  To measure its depth, and to never forget, and to remind myself that in that precise moment; I was humbled.    

I am writing it down to capture this instant, to inspect it from all angles and breathe into it just to make it move, to bring it back, then send it home.

I believe it is human nature to want to be understood. We are a social species.  We crave interconnectedness, touch, warmth and above all things love, as much as we reject it. I have loved when it has not been safe for me to do so, and yet I have pursued it anyway. I have learned to be afraid because sharing that truth is not often well received. I have learned that writing my truth; so often a confession, is not a hard line but a delicate series of arcs shifting in waves.