Certain moments you take, burrow down deep, and try to keep buried. I don't know if you ever really forget those times when you were hurt so viciously and purposely by people close to you. You may not dwell on them daily but those memories still exist.
Writing what I do is part of the freeing element of those younger years when I was all wrong. Then, I had to keep my writing hidden under the bottom drawer of my desk.
Now, I write freely at a venue that anyone could stumble across, if they knew where to look. It's dangerous to be so open when at any time those parental figures could find and read this. I'd love to be able to say to my parents that I write this thing called a blog, people read it, and some of them even enjoy it and look forward to my new posts.
I'd love to say that to them, but I won't.
The reality is that they wouldn't read this because they think this writing of mine is silly, frivolous, and stupid. They travel the world wide web only to snare information about Las Vegas, Iraq, and my siblings. They wouldn't dare search for anything that has to do with multiple sclerosis or with me.
Maybe that's okay. You can't change people or the past.
I can expose my messy stuff to the light of computer monitors. I can write and not hide it, even though I don't post my real name (or my picture anymore). I still have journals which I hope no one reads because I was fairly wild for years after I left my wasband and waited for my divorce to be final (and for several years after that).
I have a personality that is somewhat bent on self-destruction. Growing up in their atmosphere led to the belief that I had to find a way to disappear.
Years later I can now see that I don't have to cease to exist because someone else isn't happy with me. I can just pick up a pen or type away on a keyboard and let myself come pouring out. I don't have to hurt myself or change myself because I'm all wrong.
I may not be perfect, and there are parts of me that I want to change, but I am not all wrong. I'm just not anymore.