not everything is meant to be shared

When I wrote it I didn't ever intend to share it. My therapist had suggested that I use my love of writing to put into words everything that had led to this point, all that we had worked through in our sessions. But it was not intended for anyone else's consumption.

We all have skeletons in our closet, things that are better left unexplored or said except in the privacy of our own minds or in the safety of a psychotherapists office. I had been attending therapy sessions for about a year with a wonderful therapist, Imelda. She was a great fit for me, able to tease the threads of a traumatized life apart without making me completely overwhelmed as I had been when I started. We were exploring some ideas of how to manage the complicated web that had emerged, an art project had been my first thought, when Imelda said "why not a story?"

I have loved writing since childhood. I was one of those geeky introverts who wrote fantasy novels about the world I would rather live in to escape trying to figure this one out. At the time (it was the 80s) this was a encouraged and acceptably studious pastime for a girl of 12, but now it is recognized it can be a coping mechanism to manage the chronic overstimulation of the complicated modern world. That was me. Never sure what people were up to, trying desperately to identify patterns so I could fit in and be 'cool.'

So I started writing it all down. I started with my awkward childhood- idyllic in some ways, I was protected from any of the serious and sensitive parts of everyday living such as divorce, death and taxes. My parents gave me the most perfect life imaginable; vacations in cottage country, museums and historical sites and access to the best schooling support possible. I was an only child, and they devoted every minute to me and my best life. By the time high school rolled around, I had no clue how to fit in, my gangly arms and legs, braces and glasses marking me a target well before I opened my mouth to speak. When I did that, it got worse, I showed my innocence and by default, non-cool factor by having no idea what sex was, why people got divorced, or what the latest in popular culture trends were. I had never met someone of colour, nor interacted with people of different cultures, sexual orientations or gender identities. I was as white western girl as you could get. So I started watching people, garnering clues to appropriate social behaviour by becoming a superior observer of society. I learned how to walk seductively, laugh at the right moments in conversations, how to drink and smoke, and pass a joint without actually inhaling. I hid.

Then as a young adult I started to realize that my 'idyllic' life came with a reason. The skeletons began to appear. My mother had been exposed to an alcoholic father with busy fists. My dad was traumatized by the experience of growing up in Northern Ireland during the troubles. That amazing childhood- and it was amazing, had left gaps in the places where I needed to be seen, as they did their level best to avoid me ever experiencing what they did. In the process they let me down.

I dropped out of college and met a guy and having no idea how to set boundaries or be in a relationship, I allowed him to make all the decisions. Stupid. I became a people pleaser, as long as everyone else was happy, then I was too right? Years of giving my all to a marriage that gave no emotional support back took its toll. The real kicker was his mother- a total harridan by any account. She was toxic, and used to call all hours of the day and night to harangue me about how badly her son treated her. I did everything, bending over backwards to accommodate her misery, until it became my misery. I worked two jobs to pay the bills, while he sat at home on disability. I worked from 7 until 6, came home and cooked dinner, cleaned the house on Saturdays, did all the upkeep, paid all the bills and took the kids over to his mother's on Sundays. It still was not enough. After I had our first child, a daughter, I had to go right back to work because maternity leave didn't remotely cover the bills. His mother came over, expecting to be entertained every Friday evening, with pinochle and gin, while I made dinner for everyone. I spiraled into depression, my brain slowly loosening its grip on what was real and what was not. Postpartum depression is brutal, and it saps the life and energy form you better than any addiction. I stopped showering, didn't care how I looked dressed or smelled. Its hard to put into words how little you care. Oh, people care about you, but they express with "you should try taking a shower" or "why don't you fix your hair?" when all you can think about is whether the baby has blue lips yet because you are the reason they will die unless you leave. I kept going, being nicer and more helpful to everyone I knew. I was 'so lovely', and 'wonderfully helpful.' Which should have given me a sense of self worth right?

I stuck it out for twenty years until it ended, badly, which was not much of a surprise to anyone. I had three kids, and no real career to speak of and felt like I had wasted a lifetime. I was living in a rented trailer on the other side of the train tracks in an old industrial park. My serious and staid parents were appalled, what were my prospects? I should have a house and a husband and be working as a doctor or a lawyer by now. After all, what else was the point of their efforts.

As I wrote this story down, it did help. The words spilling onto the page (or into the word processor as it were) seemed to lessen the pain, and move the blame elsewhere. I complained about growing up lonely. I described how I could never fit in because of my parents, they never allowed me to go to parties or buy trendy clothes or wear makeup or listen to current music. I explored the themes of 80s parenting, how I was never really seen and no one ever properly understood me. I wrote that my parents had given me the childhood that THEY had wanted, without being able to give me what I needed. I talked about their trauma, because they said that trauma was hogwash and people should just get on with life. "Everyone is traumatized." No shit, Sherlock.

I vented about his awful mother, detailing the long monologues she used to give where she would not hear or retain any thing I had to say and managed to make everything about her. How she had told me, in one of our last conversations, that I did not know what trauma was- that she had experienced far more difficulty in life and it was my job to make her life better now. I railed about HIS habits, his laziness and inability to get up and be a man, to look after me and his children. Most of all, I bitched and whined about all those in the town who had taken advantage of my people pleasing nature and had not noticed as I got sicker and sicker day after day. I was not kind. I was raw and honest as this was therapy for me. I blamed the bank for not giving us the money we needed for a mortgage. I complained about the Captain at the Sally Ann who asked me to help out every week with youth group. I detailed every little infraction that the mothers at the local playgroup had committed while I strove to be the perfect volunteer coordinator. I steamrolled the high school teachers for the lack of education they gave my kids. I criticized my kids for taking off right after high school and leaving me alone except for once a month phone calls. I wrote about the deep anger I felt for everyone who did not see me, or try to understand my point of view, the disappointment in myself and in everyone who had let me down while I was drowning.

It was actually wonderful therapy. It was wonderful because it wouldn't hurt anyone. Because it gave me space to identify themes, find the things I wanted to change, let go of the things I could not. It was just a sad story really. And there it stayed, in my computer

The next year was a time of drastic change. I started working at the local bank, and began taking evening courses in creative writing. I put effort into making my tiny home more comfortable and I started dating again. I got a small paid gig writing pieces for a local news provider: mainly digital editions but wildly popular in our small town once a month.

That is when my story got published. I know, I know. How? I had in a folder of pieces I had been working on, and the file name was remarkably similar to a piece I had been working on for the next edition of the digital magazine. Not my best day. My usual practice is to open my attachments before final upload. This time I didnt- I just clicked on submit to the site because I was in a hurry to go pick up my son from the bus station. The piece ran while we were visiting a local farmer market on the Sunday that week. My former mother-in-law read it. My ex husband then read it (not his usual thing, but his mother called him). The Salvation Army captain read it, all the local teachers read it, and most of the people who attended my book club read it (many of whom had been young mothers at the playgroup all those years ago). The pastor at my church read it and called my mother. My mother read it. So did my father.

As cathartic as it was to write it all down, I certainly didn’t want to share it with others, nor to cast blame that would make others feel guilt or fault. I had made some positive steps towards change that meant I was more at peace with myself, my mistakes and with the things that had happened. The peace was important to me, the opening of old wounds was not. My ex in-laws? I would like to say that suddenly they were filled with remorse, but that was not the case. Instead, I was the evildoer and she the victim which was ironic given the years I spent desperately seeking her approval. She, and he, did not change. Most people began ignoring me on the street, or in stores. My book club suddenly stopped meeting: too many other commitments they said, but I knew the real reason and so did they.

The story had been a therapy practice, but now it was back to practical therapy with my parents who had been totally overwhelmed with the fact that I blamed them for everything. I didn't but my ‘story’ certainly made it sound that way. Our seventh session is on Tuesday. It’s slow going, people naturally believe the negative more strongly than the positive.

Check your file before you send it people, some things are not meant to be read.