Writing makes me feel cringey. Especially all this emotional, internal stuff.
Some say it should all be kept privately, in a diary, never be shared.
Inevitably, I’ve lost business from it. It has scared off copywriting clients, because these corporate office people don’t have the capacity to process their emotions. I’m being critical, but I know it’s not their fault. Just the way the universe is right now.
Opening up about real emotions would challenge, shatter and reconfigure their whole world. I would argue for the better of course. But who knows? Maybe I have it all wrong?
I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I just feel compelled to write and publish.
Many have reached out to me to say that my writing touched a nerve. Like it tapped into something they never knew anyone else felt. It’s hugely powerful when you speak up about something true and taboo.
I’ve never really felt safe. With the exception of a few rare days, and unpredictable moments – I’ve often feel threatened.
In all my workplaces, school and also while self-employed – I felt threatened most of the time. Social situations were often the same too.
That threat is: I’m going to get in trouble and be punished for something that’s not my fault.
Because I’m very sensitive – being in trouble/ doing something wrong hurts a lot. For years and years I had teachers shouting at us at school. So instead I am hypervigilant. It seems I have to censor what I say, or manage/steer the conversation away from conflict as much as possible. Conflict is unbearable.
Because I haven’t felt able to stand up for myself or communicate in person – I have to expend huge amounts of energy to get close but not too close to others.
Close enough to get my needs met. But if anything looks too deep and caring I had to push away because then it feels like that person has a claim over me. Then I feel I owe them something. Then I feel threatened.
The problem is I do have a big heart, I do care. I do want to give out lots of love. But if 99% of environments feel threatening, I have to hold back and switch off. I hate it. I hate myself for it. I get angry at myself. I get angry at society. But it’s the only option.
Writing is a very cathartic, real, positive process to unravel what’s troublesome. It gives you time to process and think. Because there’s nobody in front of you, you don’t shape-shift to fit what you think they need. You can be you.
Furthermore, friends and family who don’t understand you, can read what you can’t say out loud. That gives empathy, acceptance and there’s less need to adapt to them. Likewise they can communicate with you more comfortably and meaningfully.
You can’t change who you are. You’re a product of your genetics, your family, your culture and your soul.
But in order to survive we have to adapt, be malleable, round off edges, control ourselves and shame parts of ourselves that are not (socially) acceptable. We stop speaking up.
Adapting yourself provides you with a job, income, somewhere to live, food and a “social life”. All good. Except it can be hugely costly because it means carrying a lot of shame, numbing out and constantly feeling threatened.
It also prevents you from having boundaries and standing up for what you believe in and what matters. I just couldn’t bare that.
It made me very angry, frustrated and suicidal. Not as in actually wanting to top myself. (If I was I’d seek help). But the voice in my head said – “if you can’t speak up, you may as well be dead now“.
I don’t know how much of this is relevant to you. I may just be projecting my own thoughts and feelings on to you. Anyway, I hope you’re benefiting from it. If not close this tab and go back to Facebook.
I have to write. I have to write all of this because writing is one of the only safe spaces I know.
That makes me a bit teary. It feels like I’ve been dying to be heard. Dying to have a voice. And because of the all the blocks in myself and others I haven’t been able to communicate AT ALL.
I’m fucking bored of talking about the weather. Or my coach journey. Or the roadworks in town. Or whether I miss driving. Or what I ate today. Or the work I’m not doing and don’t want to do.
I’m furious that there’s lots of things I want to say, but don’t feel I can because I know others aren’t ready to hear it. Or it might upset them, and I care enough not to upset them.
It feels like a massive lump in my throat. Feeling choked. And the only outlet I have for this is to write to bunch of strangers on the internet, and the handful of friends (direct and indirect) who read this.
And overall, it’s hugely frustrating. Because it feels like there’s nowhere to go.
There’s only a couple of people who I can really talk to.
I can’t work because I can see through everyone’s professional facade to what’s sometimes very ugly underneath. Being in that environment costs an unaffordable amount of energy, to avoid trouble.
So if I can’t work I don’t feel like I can earn any money.
Without money, there’s little chance to travel, meet new people and make the real friends/peers that I desperately want. There’s little hope of relief.
Therefore I’m living on borrowed money, borrowed time and it’s only a matter of time before I’m going to get in trouble and be punished for something that’s not my fault.
Like trouble with banks or debt collectors or something. Or parents. Or people who see debt and bankruptcy as something shameful. Or whatever. That would all be 6 years away if I kept living like I am. But it’s still background threat.
However this is the safest space I can find right now.
Thus there is no option but to write this.
Because sometimes when a door closes a new window opens. Then that makes everything OK.