My therapist warns that divulging myself completely may be damaging. She worries for my career. She worries that a university may shy away from someone who is mentally ill. She worries about a lot.
I worry, too. More than once I’ve halted in my typing to consider what was just written. Do I want the world to know that? Do I want this much of my life open to the public? It’s a psychological argument as well as a literary one.
I appreciate raw, naked, honest prose as much as the next reader—but are my stories hackneyed? One of my doctoral advisors reads my post about Whitman and comments on his destroying of his papers: “more authors ought to follow W’s example and tear up stuff that shouldn’t be read!” Was that a stab at me?
I am feeling rattled. I am feeling frightened. I am questioning my own wisdom. This blog could be a huge mistake or it could be my greatest blessing. I don’t know if I should continue, but my ideas come faster than ever.
I should tell the whole story of my marriage—without flinching—from beginning to end: every humiliating decision, every minute of sobbing confusion. I should just spit it out and get it out forever.
I should talk about my father’s violence: all the violence I’ve witnessed, all the violence I learned, my drive to violence whenever I’m threatened, and the discipline it takes to resist that.
I should talk about my relationship with my mother. I should talk about how we became emotionally fused on the night I saved her life. I should talk about my drive to save every woman I meet. One of the women I’m dating says I attract emotionally unavailable women. I cant deny it. I love lost souls, and some women are such achingly beautiful, weary lost souls. I want to take them in my arms and run. I want to help them feel safe. I want to rescue. It is very unhealthy.
I know I am holding back. I’m sure my readers can feel it. I’m sorry. I will try to be more open. I will try to be more honest. I will try to just say what I feel. I will try to be brave. I will try, I promise. Maybe.