Recently I was talking with a friend about the practice of keeping a diary – she’s always written down the things that have happened in her life, what she really feels about her lovers, things she’s done and thought that no one else knows. She has a place where she puts all of it and I said that, to me, keeping a diary feels way too risky – because I’d always be afraid of someone else getting ahold of it and then knowing the things about myself I would rather keep hidden.
To which she was like, “Are you kidding me? You’ve published way worse things about yourself in your memoirs than I write in my diary - anyone in the whole world can read about your damage!”
True. But not the wholetruth. I mean that’s the dirty secret of people who are self-revealing – on some level it’s like voluntarily pleading to a misdemeanor so there’s no felony on your record. It’s really just a tightly controlled PR campaign that on the surface lookslike it’s the whole truth. But of course it’s not.
So I’ve been thinking about the hidden things in me–– the stuff where I’d rather die than have it come to light….the damage and sin and shame that I can’t admit to – and how that stuff is such a powerful force in my life, that it’s like a propeller.
It also happens to be what makes great characters in fiction.
I think I am not alone. I mean, the wounded parts of me –whether those wounds were inflicted by the sin others or by my own sin, are what keep me in motion – because I have to try and make up for them, or try and convince myself and everyone else that they aren’t there, or I have to try and get them healed by the love and attention of other people even though none of that ever works….. but wow, it sure does keep me in motion.
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