Who am I? At 42, I’m still searching for the answer. That’s part of why I started writing. Or why I started writing again.
As a child, I dreamed of being a writer when I grew up. I definitely tinkered with it often over the years. I even finished a novella I intended to be part of something larger. I lost it long ago and have struggled to redo it several tikes since with little success.
Some months ago I decided to start writing a memoir and started blogging to help me develop my voice. Parts of that memoir have been turned into blog posts which often get very nice feedback. Somehow that’s made it all much harder.
I want to be clear that I appreciate any feedback, and the positive comments are always so touching. However, it bugs me each time someone calls me brave when I know there’s more I’m still holding back out of fear.
Maybe it’s the old war veteran in me feeling the discomfort. I’ve been thanked countless times and on a few occasions even called a hero. That latter compliment is the worst for me because the word holds such special meaning. Heroes are the ones we sent home the wrong way. I’m no hero. I got to come home alive.
Maybe it’s the abuse survivor in me that can’t accept these nice words. It’s always been hard to accept compliments. It’s also easier to deal with hurt when you don’t let your esteem get too high.
Maybe it’s the stories I’ve heard from others over the years. The hurt I’ve suffered is nothing compared to what so many others have, but so few of them will ever tell.
What am I? I guess I’m a writer struggling to tell his truth. I’m a product of everything and everyone that brought me here. What that is exactly is a question I still haven’t really answered and doubt I ever will.