Voiceless

I wrote in my head long before I could talk. Even as a kid, when I learned the letters society taught me, I preferred the written word over the triteness of speech. Devouring books I did not understand and penning tales of talking octopus long before Sponge Bob appeared on the scene.

I have written my life between the jaded pages of countless notebooks. Among them, the one I treasure most, now lost in the waves of moves across oceans and time, is my childhood diary with its tiny, sacred lock. It held my innocent heart and kept it safe from the world.

In life I am a shadow in a hurried room - invisible and still. My pen writes my character. It gives voice to a voiceless existence and offers freedom in a world I don’t belong. And don't understand.

There have been blogs, unread, 0 followers and counting. Or not, the settings are private. The way I like it. My words were never meant to be shared. Just the illusion was enough. A manuscript typed and flawed, shoved under my sofa, a fine cat bed, never intended to be seen. There has been so much writing but no sharing . The sacrosanct letters penned in peace have always been mine and mine alone. My thing that no one could control. Not a boss, nor a brother or a friend. No one.

Needing to speak snuck up on me like a silent assailant. I had never felt the desire before. Perhaps it was living in a foreign country, not understanding the language that made me yearn to be heard. Or maybe it was my 40th birthday, spent with a salmon dinner and three cats. Or maybe it was just the inevitable passage of time. I don’t know the reason, but I do know this, one day I had no interest in being heard. I was content in my internal world. And the next, I felt an undeniable need to share. To be more than a silhouette.

The first thing I wrote and shared: A story on Vocal, ‘First Date’. You can read it here if you are really bored:

I copied and pasted and deleted countless times for three days before I finally hit ‘submit for review’. My whole body was shaking. Anxiety and panic swilled in my throat, tempered by a vague tingling of anticipation. Was I really going to do this? Put myself out there? Up for review? In public?

A conversation ensued in my head,

“Don’t worry about it; it’ll just be like the blogs; no one will read it anyway.”

‘So why share it? What’s the point?’

“Because…”

“Because why…”

“Because it will make you feel like a human. Like somehow your thoughts actually exist. Because you’re tired of just being alone in your head.”

SUBMIT.

30 DAYS AGO

I refreshed the page every five minutes or so. For the entire day. Anxious. Agitated. Borderline paranoid.

Dejected. I went to bed.

When I woke up, I scooted straight to my laptop. The first thing on my mind. And there it was. A notification. I could touch the anticipation; feel it surrounding my chest and contracting my rib cage. It was all I could do to stop myself from vomiting.

29 DAYS AGO.

My first ever feedback on something I wrote.

I don’t know how long I cried. But my cats know. And my heart knows.

Thank you, Emma Kate Coleman. Your kindness on that first day changed my life. It gave me the push I needed to do what I’d always been scared to do. And pehaps, always wanted but didn't allow mysef acknowledge it.

Since that day, others began to read and have never been unkind. Supportive for the most part.

I’m not going to pretend that I’m not terrified every time I hit SUBMIT. But for the first time in my life, I feel like I have a voice. And more than that. I want to use it.

Do I think I’m the next Angela Carter or Virginia Woolf? Not for a second

But there is a joy in finding my words and finally giving them a voice. Knowing that someone, somewhere might actually hear me.

Vocal and the community I have found here is the best thing I could have done for myself.