I had a conversation with my husband the other day. We were leaving yoga together, and I teased him about something he did, “Maybe I’ll write a story about that!” I said. I was joking; It wasn’t anything story worthy, but I thought it could be a good way to talk out his feelings. For a while now, I’ve been worried about how he’ll react to stories I’ve written and published. What would he think of how I’ve portrayed him in my stories, which are sometimes his stories too? Was I kind and fair? Would that matter? What if my writing hurts him and other people I love?

Our conversation didn’t ease my mind, and that’s my fault. He hasn’t read anything I’ve written. None of my friends and family have, to my knowledge. I have an overwhelming fear of that. I wrote a story about it (below), and it helped me think it through, examine my motivations.

Preventing him from reading my stories has, obviously, made it difficult to gauge his reaction. And having a vague conversion consisting of, “Would you be upset if I wrote about you?” wasn’t much help.

Truth is, this question has haunted me forever. I’ve always known that as a writer of personal stories I was treading on thin ice. It could easily crack and draw me under, trapping me behind a hazy pane, unable to breathe or feel the warmth from the ones I love. And it would be my own fault. I would’ve done that… with my words, with my choice to dance naked with our skeletons, with my honest thoughts and feelings, my true self. And that’s where it all gets murky. It’s not just me, and there are consequences to actions.

Do I honor everyone else’s feelings, or do I honor my own? Some of you may be thinking that I can do both, and you’re right; There’s no reason why I can’t… in some ways. But in others, it’s just not that simple.

I’ve spent my whole life being stifled, catering to everyone else’s needs, fearful of being anything other than a figment of their imagination. I feared myself, my truths, and I found it safer to just hide and be whatever made everyone else happy, or at least, what I thought made everyone else happy.

Turns out, I was wrong… go figure!

It’s really not my responsibility to please everyone. And it’s really not fair that I’m not trusting their strength and resilience. I’m not trusting them to be okay with painful truths, nor am I trusting that their feelings toward me are genuine. It’s kinda shitty if you think about it, even though it makes perfect sense, given my experience. We all have reason, great reasons, but there’s no reason I can’t grow and change.

So does that mean, I just throw it all out there and hope for the best?

Trust is a complex beast…

I began to write and publish my most personal stories. The first few didn’t have much about my loved ones in them. As I wrote more, though, the characters of my life began to speak; They began to act. And they had to, because they were integral parts of these stories.

When I wrote “The Art of Forgiveness” (below), that reality stared me down. It’s a story about my parents, our troubled relationship, and how things turned out. In the story, I show a vivid scene from my childhood. It was scary to write, but it was true, and it was my story, how I felt, what I saw, what it meant to me. Of course it was scary to own my truth in every story I’ve written, but this one had a different element. Would it hurt my parents? And could I live with that? Was it really worth it?

In reality, the chances of my parents coming across any of my stories on the internet are slim-to-none. Other’s will, though, and regardless of whether they know my parents or not, they might think horrible things about them.

I see them as human beings doing the best they can, no different than anyone else. I did my best to paint them that way, but maybe I failed and maybe someone will think they’re horrible. Maybe no one will think they’re horrible, but maybe my parents will read it someday and feel horrible. No one likes to be reminded of past mistakes especially when it has to do with loved ones. And hearing how it affected a loved one is an even harder pill to swallow, especially when the world gets to read it too.

I was forcing them to run naked with me. Maybe they wouldn’t want to. Was it my right to make them?

If I look at it in that way, black and white, then NO, it’s absolutely not my right. How dare I do that to them! What kind of a daughter am I? But just like everything in life, there is no black and white, no one view or angle. The angles and shades are infinite. And mine are no less valid.

It is my story. I believe I was respectful and kind in the telling. And what’s more, I needed to write it. If I omit everyone’s pain parts from my stories because they might be hurt, I won’t have anything worth reading when all is said and done. So then, I won’t be a writer. And then, I won’t be me again, and I just can’t go back to living beneath the floorboards.

I can’t control how others are going to feel about my work, about me, and I need to stop trying. I need to stop fearing. I can only do my best to do no harm while also respecting myself, my needs, who I am. Hopefully, they’ll see that and do the same.

Closer to home…

As I mentioned earlier, my parents aren’t the only characters in my stories that might be hurt. After I wrote that one, I ventured into my marriage and our sexual relationship. Those are fiery topics, to say the least. Most people are very uncomfortable talking about the intimate details of their marriage, especially when it comes to sex. When I leap, though, I do it from the highest possible point, and then I go higher.

I started off with a piece about maintaining a marriage through all it’s ups and downs (below). I guess this issue is another leg of that roller coaster.

Then I ventured into our sex life. The first story I wrote was about how we teach people how to treat us (below). We developed a negative dynamic where he learned, from my poor boundaries and from his own dysfunction, that I’d say yes to just about anything if asked enough times.

When I wrote it, I feared his reaction something terrible. Did I make him look like an asshole? Would he feel like I did? Would he feel ashamed and worried about our marriage? Again, things I can’t control. I read it over and over and even revised it a bit after it was published because I want to be sure that he’s not scene in an unfair light. And that’s really all I can do.

My fear remained, though. We hadn’t had enough of a discussion during that moment after yoga to quell this swarm of emotion in any significant way.

A leap of faith…

My worry over these things had been storming for weeks, so finally, I had to talk with my therapist about it.

She listened and was diplomatic, as always, but I could see a tension in her eyes that isn’t normally there. It seemed like she didn’t quite get it, the significance of me losing my voice, feeling like I needed to ask permission, feeling like if I allowed everyone to “sign off” it would be like everyone else got to dictate what I would do. It’s understandable that she’d have trouble wrapping her head around it; It’s hard to really know something in your heart unless you also feel it too. It’s also hard to really understand what I’m truly talking about because I tend to omit as much as possible.

I’ve always had difficulty being honest, even with my therapist. I’m not saying I’ve lied to her, or anyone else. At least not outright. Of course, I’m human and have done and said some things I shouldn’t, but I’ve always thought of myself as basically an honest person. I return the extra change the cashier gives me and bring back the item at the bottom of my cart that I forgot to pay for. I’ve never cheated on tests or in relationships. And I’ve told the truth at times when it was certain to get me in trouble.

You can be an honest person and still have trouble being honest about your truth.

I’ve hidden most of myself from most people all of my life. I’ve even hidden from myself. There are large chunks of my life with only spotty memories, and I still have trouble saying certain things out loud. This pattern affects all my relationships. When my husband would ask what I like, I’d say what I thought he wanted me to say. Sometimes it would be mostly true, or partly true, but rarely completely true. And almost always there would be parts that I’d completely omit, parts I feared would never be okay to think, say, or be.

That’s why a few days ago, I wrote the piece below about my bisexuality.

I felt compelled to write it… for myself and for others. I also felt scared as hell. My husband is the only one who knows I’m bisexual, and even then, his real knowledge has been limited. We’ve barely talked about it, mainly because I’ve been too afraid to. I like to hide my cards, keep any sense of control or power no matter how minuscule or false it may be.

And yes, while I was afraid to out myself to the world, the scariest part is outing myself to people I know, people I see, people I love. And the biggest question that swelled in my head was… How would he feel, when he reads that I love him, want to stay with him, but have such strong feelings for women? No matter how you slice it, that’s gonna hurt. And I don’t mean to do that, but my not saying it doesn’t make it any less true.

I took a leap of faith and decided to talk to him about this one before I hit publish. So after I scheduled publication for the next morning, I climbed into bed with him. I told him about the parts I feared would hurt him and why, and I was right, it did. But we continued to talk, and he said something amazing.

He said that he wants me to keep writing these things; He wishes he was all I needed, but he understands it’s more complicated than the fact that I love him and am satisfied with him. He also said that he knows that putting things like this out there comes with being a writer, and he’s grateful I’m a writer, grateful I’m being true to myself.

He’s pretty damned great, I know. And we, of course, made love after that… and then talked some more.

Until now, I was never able tell my husband what I liked or wanted because I was always too afraid. Clearly, that screwed up our sexual relationship in so many ways. And now, coming clean, being honest, I feared that it would hurt him, and that’s the last thing I want. But I have to stop hurting myself by being something I’m not, by holding my tongue or being coerced into saying yes when I’ve already said no or want to say no. I also have to trust him to be able to handle reality and to love me because of who I am not in spite of it. And he does.

So that’s where my answers lie. That’s why I’ve chosen to put my truth, carefully and kindly, first. I just can’t let others chose who I am and what I do anymore. And I can’t pretend I’m someone else; I can’t be silent.

The fear is strong, and it probably wont ever be completely gone.

Setting these truths free has kept me up at night. That’s how scary it’s been to let people know me, and to know I may possibly hurt people I love.

As writers of personal stories we face this gut wrenching decision every time we put words to the page. We may hurt them by exposing parts of them that they’re not ready for anyone to see, or we may hurt them by exposing unexpected parts of ourselves.

I’ll continue the conversation with my husband and with my therapist. I will do my very best to listen, be considerate, and to not hurt anyone with my writing. Maybe I’ll even let them read it… maybe, but it won’t be so they can decide. It will be so we can have a conversation, and so they can actually know me.

I’ve stifled my voice all my life, and I just can’t do it anymore. It’s true, I’m filled with horrific fear every time I publish a story, but it’s also true that I’m filled with glorious relief when others read it and related to it. So many people have told me how much they needed to read my words, how they’ve saved it or shared it with their spouse, partner, or friend.

I always feel naked. And I’ve never felt so free. And I’m certain this is the right path. There’s a saying, “You’re secrets keep you sick,” and another saying, “The truth shall set you free.” I’m pretty sure they’re both right. My loved ones may be hurt by my writing, but hopefully, we’ll also all grow stronger because of it.