Silence = Taking Care of the Ones I Love

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything. Experiences have presented opportunity but I haven’t felt the same motivation. It felt difficult and stiff. Or perhaps, self-doubt entered the conversation.

I’m not sure why. “Writer’s block?”

Life?

But then it occurred to me, and I reminded myself these penned thoughts and observations were never intended to be anything more than self-reflection - not the next New York Times bestseller.

Why worry about a blog? The grammar, the sentiment, and the message? It gets in the way,

And the messy (hidden inside my walls) has never been the problem. It's being exposed. Opening myself up for judgement, or concern. Sharing what may make the people close to me worry. Exposing the real shit.

Because when you share with the people you love, your burden undoubtedly become theirs. And who am I to saddle those dear to me with the weight of reality.

While I try to justify my secrecy, I also recognize I am doing a disservice to my family. As much as I believe I'm the master of subterfuge, they already throw lifelines, ask questions, and express concern.

My response, "I am fine".

So do I pen everything?

A conundrum.

Putting a plug in it. Yup, that is a skill I have mastered. But what is the consequence of silence?

I don't have a definitive answer. Or a fix. I just know that harboring all of these thoughts, fears, and even dreams - as much as I am afraid to have them - without ever unbuttoning and letting some of it out, is a one-way ticket to loss.

Loss of hope, joy, love, and moving forward.

Take Two.

Messy counts.