I write for me…now.

I write here for me…now.

Sometimes folks think I am in their head and wrote stuff just for them.

Sometimes folks love what I write and they send me the most amazing emails and notes. Of which I just love and appreciate. That they would take a moment to first read what I have written and then go so far as to send me a message.

Sometimes folks feel unloved or left out because of what I write here. Sometimes folks wish that they knew the stuff I write about, before I write about it.

Sometimes folks I am sure get super annoyed with what I have written.

Sometimes folks judge me for what I write.

It is a weird thing to not be able to control how your words fall on someone. Or where they fall within in them.

 

For a very long time, I stopped writing. For me or for anyone.

In my younger years, I kept a journal. Many journals. I wrote my heart into the pages of multiple books.

No one had ever told me that writing in a journal was a good idea. No one ever said, “buy a book to write in and it will make you feel a whole lot better”. I fact, I can’t actually recall the moment I thought it was a good idea. But somewhere around 14 when I my period started I think, I started writing.

For me.

That’s the thing with journals. You write for you, about you, and with you. And in the writing, there is a visibility of what it is that is happening. More often than not, the page reveals a truth that the mind can’t let you see. It is like the heart has a direct line to the pen.

At 16, my boyfriend at the time, told me he had read my journals because he was “curious”.

At that young age I couldn’t have articulated what it really felt like. But after the same thing happened at 25, I am pretty clear now.

Those of you who have read anything about me, or know me at all, you know that my upbringing, while filled with love from my mother, was a little unsettling.

I sought solace therapeutically in  music and in writing and dysfunctionally in an eating disorder and promiscuity.

I wrote all about it all. Especially the dysfunction.

After my second round of intrusion in to my inner world at 25, I stopped writing. Full stop. Quit. Stopped.

I had carried my journals with me, all 18 of them, when I went travelling across Australia at 24. I packed up all my belongings into my little Hyundai Excel and off I went. Gold Coast to Perth. It didn’t seem like a big deal given my few trips from Gold Coast to Townsville. Perth just seemed like the next destination when I returned home from overseas.

Packed tightly in with all my clothes, books and guitar (which I still can’t play), my heart spills travelled along.

And I wrote about my journeys. About the divine folks I met. The roads I took. The amazing scenery. How it felt on my journey. Well at least I am pretty sure that is what I wrote about.

On that trip, I met a boy who later became my boy friend and later my fiancé.

He packed his stuff up too and off we went travelling together.

Along came my writings.

Melbourne we settled.

We unpacked.

Found jobs.

Somewhere to live.

We planned our wedding.

And so you would think it would seem okay for that person to read my heart filled journals. All the words I had used from a wee young age all the way through to an adult.

All the pain of dysfunction. The first loves. The ‘not so great’ decisions. And those not so great decisions it seems he didn’t have a very good time with.

He never told me he read them. Well not until…

What does your intuition feel like to you? Where do you feel that ‘hmmmm’ feeling?

I’ve always felt my intuition sits in the spaces between. Space between what is being said. In the spaces. When there are no words. Or after the words are spoken and a full body conversation begins. A sweet hum. “Hmmmm”. A sense in my body. Sometimes it feels like a push in my gut. Other times it is fluttering in my chest.

I remember the day I returned home from work after his sick day.

And the gut push hit. In the silence.

“Hmmmm” feeling.

And on we went.

A week passed.

Something was so different.

Weekends we usually went out together. That following weekend, he went out. With the guys from work.

‘Hmmm’ feeling.

I talked myself out of the feeling though. “It’s good he’s made friends here”.

He didn’t come home that night.

I didn’t sleep that night.

It’s funny. As I write this in real time with the music playing, this song plays. Where were you when this was all going on when I was 25? Oh, not born probably!

Exhale.

So, he didn’t come home. I didn’t sleep.

This weird behaviour went on for a while.

The ‘hmmmm’ continued.

Finally in a confrontation of this weird and it all fell on the floor. Like thousands of small ball bearings threatening to undo my safe ground. Freezing me in my little space. Inhaled.

The truth.

And when the truth comes, it hurts sometimes. A lot sometimes. I’ve come to live this intimately.

I think this is why we don’t actually want to trust the ‘hmmmm’ because we know it is going to hurt if it is true. A lot. And we wish it away, praying and hoping it isn’t true. Denial is a deceptively safe place to hide…initially. A hot place to hide long term.

He took exception to some of my past ‘not so great’ decisions. Decisions I made as a very young and often troubled person, and at a time when he wasn’t a part of my life. Those words seemingly didn’t seem to matter.

It didn’t end then, but it was destined to.

I ripped up those books. 20 journals. Each and every page ripped up. I sat on the bed and cried years of heart pain. Years of truths. And tears of self judgement and self loathing. I was a bad person. I had evidence of it in these books. So they had to be destroyed.

And after they were destroyed, we would be fine…right?

And that is where the writing stopped.

That thing that had carried me through all those years, not a moment of therapy except for that which I sought in the pages of a journal.

Stopped.

My power left. I felt like I gave it to him.

It took over 10 years to start writing again.

ec72d89f843f228142c6e324f2e58c54.jpg

4 years ago I started to write again because truly, I just couldn’t NOT anymore.

I felt like I needed to write for others. To help others.

So, instead of journaling I stared a blog on Facebook called Expanding the Heart Space. If you google it I don’t think you can find it…hang on…So, I am wrong. Turns out there is still a blog, not on Facebook, but an actual blog. Funny the things I forget.

Initially it was a scary as hell but I thought I was helping folks, so it was worth it.

A year or so later, I realised I was writing for me.

After I had written something, so often I couldn’t even remember what I had written. Like something had taken over me.

So I would read it again.

And more often than not, what I had written was exactly what I needed to read. In one way or another.

I was scared to admit the truth though. I was really writing for me.

Scared of judgment. Of oversharing. Of offending. Of pissing people off. Of getting it wrong.

It’s literally like having all that heart held in your hands and asking the world to stab it if they want.

In a weird twist of truth and grace, what I have come to see, is that I get far more support and “me too” moments than I do negative judgement. More often I am reminded I am not alone. I love SO much getting emails from folks who have read something about what I have written, about how it has fallen on them.

I do love it SO.

And still, ultimately I write for me.

If I inspire you to take a risk, or open up, or share, or feel brave enough to do something you didn’t think you could…oh how my heart sings!

And I write for me.

Even if you were in the room with me now, I would be writing this and not necessarily talking to you about the content. I can’t. The stuff that I write comes though me in a a way that I find difficult to articulate. All I know, is there is a level of trust I have that I have of myself now, that I didn’t before.

If my writing triggers folks, which I am sure it does, I trust that that is their business. Not mine. I wouldn’t disrespect anyone enough to not be honest.

And still, ultimately I write for me.

This is my love. My time. My space. My right. And my power.

I feel free when I write.

I feel light when I write.

I feel connected when I write.

I feel creative when I write.

I feel inspired when I write.

I learn more about myself when I write.

And if folks get offended, or triggered, or pissed, or annoyed or whatever they might get….

I write for me.

And if you are lucky enough for me to write about you, and you don’t like it….

I subscribe to the Anne Lammot position, if people don’t like what you write about them, then maybe they should have been kinder. 🙂

And in no surprise, this is the song is playing as I type this.

I write for me.

jen-14


Writing in a group interests me. So in July if you want to come and be with like hearted souls and get some juices flowing, we’d love you to come along. On the Gold Coast. If you want to be added to the list of folks who are already coming along, email me here for more information.

 

 

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s