Truth Isn’t Always Pretty
As a writer, I believe I have a moral obligation to speak my truth. I’ve learned it will resonate with some, and not others. Sometimes, it will raise a person’s ire, or drive them to challenge what I say. When that happens, I know I’m remaining true to myself rather than writing to try to please everyone; an arduous task at best, and watering down my writing, at worst.
At times, my writing elicits an emotional response. It might be one of shared understanding, or perhaps anger or outrage. I aim for the former when I write about painful experiences and trauma, but don’t shy away from the latter either. I’ve never been everyone’s cup of tea, and finally learned there’s no reason to try to be. I’ll leave that to Mr. Rogers, and to the politicians when they’re pounding the pavement to collect votes. I don’t write for popularity or acceptance. I write because I think people need to hear things, then form their own opinions. But mostly, I write for myself.
It wasn’t always this way. For decades, what I wrote never saw the light of day. I wrote out my pain, my frustration, and often, my self-loathing on nights when sleep wouldn’t come, or when anger bubbled up inside so violently, I had to release some of the pressure somehow. I had no one to talk to, children to raise, bills to pay, and a bitter loneliness I wore like a shroud to keep the world at arm’s length. Sometimes it worked, but mostly it didn’t, though I deluded myself into believing I had everyone fooled.
Learning Life is for Living, Not Just Surviving
There were times I truly believed I was dead inside, and my only goal was to get through 
another day. What a sad state of affairs it is to want only to get though a day without joy, without connection, without meaning. I know I was luckier than most, having writing as an outlet for the loneliness and pain. I may have exacerbated and even justified some of it for a long time, but at least it wasn’t held inside where it could fester and eat away at what little self-esteem I possessed.
If I could do one thing for those who struggle with self-loathing, feelings of unworthiness, and a deep, dark, impenetrable loneliness, I’d tell them to write it out. I’d say:
Put your fingers to the keyboard, or take pen in hand and write whatever comes out. Don’t edit. Don’t analyze. Just write whatever your heart needs to say. Disengage your brain if you can, and pour your heart out on the page. Then put it away, or burn it if you must, but get the words out. By doing so, you take the power away from the feelings.
It’s a process that’s helped me, but also several of my friends, and, I’d suspect a lot of struggling writers too. Sometimes, your heart is carrying too much, and most of what it carries are lies you tell yourself. The best thing to do is unload it, but you give yourself a million reasons not to bother family and friends. By writing it for and by yourself, you take away that argument. And ultimately you learn the people who care about you both want, and need to help.
Writing to Heal First
For myself, my healing process truly began when I started writing about it, not only regularly, but publicly. I didn’t open up all at once, of course. Over time, and with encouragement from my daughter, friends, and people who read and related to my experiences, I slowly removed the filters I’d been taught to apply to everything I said or did, and began letting people see my cracks; my bruises; my imperfections.
Not only has the process been cathartic, but the rewards have been tremendous. So many unexpected and wonderful things have come my way because I faced my biggest fear of all, and my oldest, most dangerous beliefs. It may sound weird, but in a way, having both my parents choose suicide has turned out to be my biggest blessing.
Realizing both were unable to reach out to friends or family for help when they needed it most forced me to recognize much of what I’d been taught was just plain wrong. If it had been right, why would my parents fail to reach out to friends and family for help before choosing such a final, irrevocable solution to their mental and physical pain? It was one of the many questions I asked myself as I poured out my heart day after day, page after page.
Patterns Are Meant to be Broken
Eventually I realized I was meant to break some generations-old patterns. They may have been 
valid at one time, but between emigration and overall improved circumstances for both sides of my family, they’d become more of a curse than a blessing, much less, a means for survival. They certainly hadn’t taught me how to find joy, or connect with other people. All I knew how to do was try unsuccessfully to fit in, and fly so low I stayed under everyone’s radar. I honestly believed I succeeded in being invisible.
The trouble was, I wasn’t meant to be invisible, but until I stopped trying to be something I wasn’t, and practiced behaviors that fit about as well as a pair of too-small jeans, I attracted the wrong kind of attention, and spent a lot of time getting beat up, or worse, tossed aside as unimportant, and unworthy of anyone’s kindness or consideration.
Being treated like you’re unimportant, and being passed over in business, and life in general feeds the part of you that whines: “I’m not worthy!” Yet I realize in hindsight, the chicken, if you will, was my beliefs, and the egg was the way people treated me. I was projecting my own opinion of myself and, like pheromones, others picked it up and reinforced those beliefs.
Treating Yourself With Love and Respect
Over the years I heard the saying: “Until you love yourself, you can’t expect others to love you.” I always believed it was true, intrinsically, and tried to honor and love myself despite my beliefs. I realize now, the truth is, you have to honor and respect yourself, more than anything else. You have to put yourself first, and get over believing it’s selfish to do so.
Lucky for me there were, and still are people who have more faith in my abilities than I do. But when I was at my lowest, I not only didn’t believe them, but made it clear I dismissed their opinions. By doing so, I communicated to everyone else I wasn’t worth consideration. And I got a whole lot of nothing, along with quite a bit of abuse for my troubles. Thank goodness they stuck by me until I got my head out of my tuchus!
Writing Saved my life!
The lessons I’ve learned are now deeply ingrained. The support I get from speaking my truth even when it’s painful and far from my normal, upbeat self have worked miracles in my opinion. I’ve ripped off most of the masks, and see no reason to pretend to be something I’m not. Today, I can emphatically proclaim: “I’m a Writer” and believe my own words.
I get up every day, go through a routine that includes washing my face and getting dressed, showing up on a live Facebook video, and showing gratitude for everything both small and monumental in my life. I feel confident I’m on the right track even on days when I do little more than the routine things, and when my morning pages are the only words I write. I know it’s all part of the process.
As I gain confidence, I better recognize the support that was always there, and what I continue to attract as well. I can honestly say writing saved my life.
About the Author
Sheri Conaway is a Holistic Ghostwriter, and an advocate for cats and mental health. Sheri 
believes in the Laws of Attraction, but only if you are a participant rather than just an observer. Her mission is to Make Vulnerable Beautiful and help entrepreneurs touch the souls of their readers and clients so they can increase their impact and their income. If you’d like to have her write for you, please visit her Hire Me page for more information. You can also find her on Facebook Sheri Levenstein-Conaway Author. And check out her new group, Putting Your Whole Heart Forward.
Be sure to watch this space for news of the upcoming releases of ” Rebuilding After Suicide” and “Sasha’s Journey”.
