Catharsis

Which isn't the word exact, but is close enough for now. Revelation? No, not that either. Liberation. Maybe that.

Been reading and discussing Captivating with my W.O.W group. Have loved the book. Wonderful perspective. Refreshing, revealing, well written. Has made an impact on me.

Got to the first chapter that didn't speak to me. I was just reading it, cause I was supposed to. Skimming it. Not absorbing it, rereading, highlighting, journaling--like I have for every other chapter. This one, I treated like a mandatory reading exercise.

It, I told myself, didn't pertain to me. No relevance. Nothing new.

And then I asked my self a question, and i filled two pages in my journal. And my thoughts became to private to write in my journal, so I wrote them on four little pieces of scrap pad paper. Wrote them. Scribbled them. Scrawled them. Let things out through the angry movements of the pen that I hadn't dared before. No tears. No sounds. Just the scratches of the pen. Capitals. Illegible. Let it out. Get it out. Throw it out. Throw it up.

And then again. More sheets of paper. Not prose this time. Line by line. Not poetry either. Too sad. Too ugly. Not poetry. Line by line. Repetition. And its there. Black and white. Words on paper. The truth. ALL of the truth.

Why do I write this here?

Because I can't get done with it.
Because I need to share it.
Not what I wrote. I might burn that. I might seal it in an envelope and throw it away. I might shred it.
But I had to share that I wrote it.
I don't want to forget it.
I don't want to throw it away either.
But I don't want anyone to read it.
Not yet.

Maybe later.
Maybe never.

I haven't decided yet.

For now, its enough that I wrote it. And I saw it. And I faced it.

And that is what is needed.