As far back as I can remember, the boundaries of what I’ve considered “private” have been quite flexible, but never as flexible (or less existent) than they are now. They way I view privacy is that it’s born of the desire to hide (or, at least not advertise) atypical traits, that may (or may not) be viewed as unfavorable. I do not consider myself exempt from this, there are still things that I’d consider “privileged” information, things that not everyone will see or know, but I just don’t feel the need to be as discerning as I used to be about such things.

When I really began writing, the Kate I had become was one I hardly recognized. To say that I was struggling would be putting it lightly. I was falling apart, losing bits of myself with each turn. This all started as a way of pouring out the overwhelming emotion that welled up within my chest, weighed heavily on my heart, restricted my breathing, and caused more than one inappropriately timed cry. I needed an outlet. I needed to be honest, brutally so, about where I was, how I had arrived at this place, and how I was going to work past it.

Write honestly and share openly. When I began sharing my writing last year, these were my only rules. I needed to write without a filter, and learn to express all the things that weighed me down and plagued my mind. While my posts aren’t always shared in a clear, chronological order, it’s still been immensely helpful to have a record of where I’ve been emotionally. It’s helped me make sense of my patterns and habits. It’s helped me get back to being the me that I recognize.

In the beginning of all of this, I shared exactly what I was feeling. I gave little, if any, thought to what my words might do or mean to the people I was writing about. It wasn’t a lack of respect for them, it was just my process. It’s what I needed to do, and that had to take priority. Honestly, had I been met with resistance an earlier part of this process, it’s likely that I would have stopped before I realized how beneficial it has been, and how it is worth continuing.

It’s hard to write, easier when you write what you know — but hard once again when what you know is personal and involves other people.


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