recently i wrote a story for sad online magazine; the title was different. i also read this story at the art book fair 2016.
before i read the story, but after it had gone online, i sent the link to a few friends. maybe six to eight people, some from hometown nagpur, others from hometown vancouver.
the story was about two incidents in my life, separated by 20 years. this is the first time i have ever told this story in its complete form. two events, one 70 years ago, the other 50. a long time to be keeping a secret.
i needed to tell this story because of the impact on my life. physical, emotional, psychological. i now own this story because it is not a secret any longer.
the response is interesting. my writer friends, supportive, encouraging. at the art gallery reading, same response. for the story and the writing.
friends who received my gift by email? one casual, nice work. one hysterical outpouring, demanding i recall this work. the rest, silence.
and this is why it was important to tell this story. not just because it was my story and therapeutic for me to open the door wide. but because these events are still happening.
and silence is a form of denial. denial of what happened, and a denial of the person who is outing the story. it was this spirit of uncharitable denial that was a direct cause of what happened to me. denial by family, by community, my neighbours, friends.
the result was i felt wrong. my being was wrong.
post-traumatic stress is not just from war, murder, home invasions.
it is the result of any sort of distressing and disturbing experience in a person’s life.
i was silent, in my own private world of shame and guilt, for over 50 years. when i embarked on a pathway to health. and am still, at 70, working my way through to an acceptance and compassion towards myself.
i have felt demeaned and diminished by secrets. and i want to learn why secrets are so damaging to us individually and as a society. and will share what i find out with you in this blog.
peace and strength in compassion.