Posted by: JulieAloha | December 13, 2016

Life Lessons

My learning curve is apparently quite slow; I trust too easily, too naive. This blog was supposed to be my outlet, my place to air my thoughts and my story, but it’s become a hunting ground, a treasure trove of pain, fodder for gossip and to turn against me. My story is still here, but hidden, invisible but to myself, but that wasn’t its purpose, not its design. I wanted to share my story, all the beauty and all the despair of it. It was meant to form connections, to heal, to form a base for understanding, comprehension, empathy, and direction. I wanted to reach out to others who have been there, who are there, who know what I feel and could stand with me, or me with them, and not be so alone. But no. That was not to be allowed. Alas, my story contained more than myself in vacuum, alone on a stage with no other players. I tried to explain, to defend, to make good, but my words fell unheeded into the void left behind as the other actors turned their backs, turned away. I’m certain no other author ever before me has written of their own history, never angered someone who didn’t wish their part to come to light. No, never.

Not fair? No, of course not. Why should it be? Why shouldn’t I have to bury my words and bow to convention, appease the gallery at the expense of my need? Do I not have the right to scream my anguish to the emptiness of the wide, wide web, to cast my sorrows to the net and see with whom they might connect? No, I may not delve through my own darkness employing type and font and pixel rather than blade or poison or worse, though words are more sharply edged than steel. Perhaps they would have preferred a gaudier act of desperation, more to pity the poor unfortunate, martyred to unrequited love. But no. I chose words. Words of joy and grief and pain. Words of narration, of relation, of truth. Words of bitterness. Words of beauty. Words of story. My story. Words now silenced. Concealed. Suppressed. Stifled. Censored.

But they are still there, I know them, my story, my solace. I must keep them alive lest I lose everything I have gained and lost and learned from them. And I have still more words and I will employ them for as long there are type and font and pixel, I must be true to myself. Naive? Perhaps. But rather that than cynical, jaded, untrusting. Yes


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