I just finished writing a post that as I re-read it, my heart began to beat a bit harder. Anxiety began to rise. It contains personal narrative. It tells some of the parts my life. I can’t get myself to hit the Publish button. Even though this blog is anonymous.
It’s amazing the power of silencing around women’s lives. How we learn that speaking about the most simple part of our lives is, well, boring. Talking about the complex parts, taboo.
I decided some weeks ago that I would write a book. I’ve vacillated back and forth as to whether it should be fictionalized memoir presented wholly as fiction or a true memoir. Either way, I haven’t been able write more than a couple of lines. I haven’t been able to overcome the anxieties of truth telling as a woman. If I write the book, there will be repercussions. Of course.
So instead of publishing the essay I wrote this morning, I post this. But tomorrow, or later today, or next week, maybe I’ll claim that courageous audacity that it takes for a woman to talk about the narratives of her life. Now is just not the time.