After A Reading

breaking the rules. facing shame.

At the end of the Silent Writing session I joined this afternoon, I read a piece I recently wrote. It’s called Outed and is about the time, when I was 12, that I wrote a letter to my oldest brother, Michael. He had just moved to Dallas, Texas, and the letter was telling him I was worried our dad was an alcoholic.

I didn’t hear back.

But, a few weeks later, in the car on the way to our Grandma’s house, my brother Chris said: “So Martha, you think Dad’s an alcoholic?”

Suffice it to say I was humiliated—exactly what Chris intended.

***

At the beginning of our meeting, our host said there’d be time to read after Silent Writing. I didn’t have a plan to share, though the whole time I wrote—about something completely different—I envisioned this group of about 12 as my audience. It helps me to have an anticipated audience sometimes, even if they’ll never hear or read a word.

When our writing time was over, people were again invited to read. Our host added more information—doesn’t have to be something you wrote today. … About 3 minutes per read. …

A lot of my chapters are short and Outed is one only one other person has read. I’d never shared it out loud and I guess I hadn’t thought about what it would be like.

Since no one else was volunteering I raised my hand. I love sharing my writing. It’s healing. It makes the work come full circle. Like without a reader the piece’s energy is stuck. A raspberry ripe on the vine with no one enjoying it—its purpose unmet.

So I read. I read from my computer because I didn’t have a printout. With my document on the screen, I couldn’t see my audience, but they could see me. I felt exposed. A little out of control.

Reading, I was back in that car being humiliated. But this time, instead of not saying anything, I had a voice. With my words in control of the narrative, I had complete power. I owned the whole story.

And yet…

When my reading was over, I was shaky and teary. Mere, our gentle, caring host, asked me some questions. People wrote some encouraging words in the chat. But I felt wrong for having read.

I felt nervous. Vulnerable.

Again.

I’m not sure if Mere asked me how I was feeling. I know I said I was breaking a rule. Growing up we weren’t allowed to know what we knew. And we were definitely not allowed to talk about it.

I know I said I was aware of voices. Maybe I called them The Critics. And that I was going to need to spend some time with them. Even though it was a kind and caring group, I was uncomfortable with all the attention I was receiving.

Next person please!

Six hours later, I am still a little shaken. It was a small group of writers who are part of a community that cares about truth-telling and tending to the pain and trauma so many of us have endured. It felt safe. I felt safe.

And yet. My body responded as if I weren’t. I felt the same feelings I felt when I was 12.

To say I was aware of voices doesn’t quite capture my experience. It’s more that in retelling and reading about it, my whole body relived that 41-years-ago car ride.

The messages are still in there:
How dare you.
You don’t get to ask for time. (“Don’t Need,”—another unspoken rule.)
What makes you so special? You’re not special.
You’re still talking about THAT? Get OVER it. Jesus Christ, that was so long ago.
Who cares what you have to say?
You are so goddam sensitive.

In a word, SHAME—that awful state of physical and emotional overwhelm that leaves you feeling wrong and unworthy.

But it was a safe space. People SAW me, HEARD me, PRAISED me, called me “BRAVE.”

I will meditate on this experience. I will hold my 12-year-old self close as I praise her bravery and courage and wisdom.

I will hold my 53-year-old self close and do the same.

I will also trust that, despite the emotional spinout, sharing this has healed some parts. I think the shame is so powerful is because it’s trying to protect me. It feels really threatened by my breaking a rule. It doesn’t know it’s safe to talk. Safe to speak. Safe to expose a secret.

I am grateful to be able to tell my story to an audience that wants to hear it. Thank you, Mere, The Saturday Silent Writers, and everyone in A Writing Room. You are helping heal past and future generations. <3