About That Story That You’re Hiding
When what you need most is to be seen
I used to date a drug user. No, I’m not talking about a pot smoker or a pill popper. I’m talking about someone who inserted needles in his veins and injected toxic substances into them.
Back then, while my girlfriends chirped about falling in love for the first time, losing their virginity and cute things like that, what I wanted to share were the phone calls in the middle of the night when he’d had his fix, where I’d listen to him ramble, too scared that if I didn’t "ride the high" with him, he might OD in his room.
I wanted to share that he thought it was “f*cking cool” that he’d actually started to OD once and his pals had to resuscitate him.
I wanted to share how the same “pals” set him up, leading to him being arrested and spending a night in prison while his whole family tried to find the money to bail him out.
I wanted to share so much… But I didn’t.
I was ashamed.
I was ashamed of what people would think of me for being with someone like him.
I was afraid that my worth would be determined by his actions.
I was afraid that I would be cast aside because my experiences didn’t match my girlfriends’.
So I hid them.
I put a smile on my face and shoved all the intense emotions a girl that age shouldn’t have to deal with, in a deep deep dark corner where no one would find them.
I put a smile on my face and pretended everything was okay. I hung out with my girlfriends and laughed with them. But then I’d go home, and sometimes when things got too much, I would cut myself.
There were so many intense emotions I couldn’t even bring myself to feel, that inflicting physical pain on myself was an easier way to “process” those emotions and give them a way out.
I’d cut myself and nurse those wounds with the most loving care, because paradoxically, it gave me the illusion of taking care of myself, of nursing those inner wounds too.
I’d cry myself to sleep, and then, the next morning, I'd wake up and put my metaphorical mask back on, because like so many other times, I chose to hide even though what I needed most was to be seen.
I hid when my guy hit me.
I hid when I found out I'd been cheated on multiple times and felt like my whole world was collapsing around and under me.
I hid when I found myself in a sexless relationship that had me question my self-worth and my femininity for years in the most painful ways.
It’s sad to think that all those times I hid, were the times I most needed someone by my side, someone to be there for me, to listen to me, to tell me that I’m not alone.
But I hid, because I was ashamed.
Ashamed that what was happening to me was the result of me not being worthy of more, and that sharing it would mean exposing my worthlessness for others to see.
It’s sad.
And what’s even sadder, is that I know I’m not the only one.
When I wrote my book, Soul Superstar – Stories From My Sober Heart, so many people reached out to me. So many people thanked me because sharing my story had made them feel less alone. They thanked me for putting into words what they’d been feeling for years.
That’s the power of story.
Sharing your story takes you out of your hiding place.
It frees you from emotions and stories that have been weighing you down for years, even decades. It lightens you up and makes a sh*t ton of space for Magic to happen.
In fact, I’ve always said writing my book was a way for me to honour those stories and emotions and give them a new home outside of me, in the shape of the book. It’s like transferring data from your computer’s hard drive to an external drive.
Have you ever done that? Ever noticed how swift and efficient your computer is afterwards?
It was literally the same for me. 10x.
My life has changed in such an exponential way since I wrote my book that I feel that that story only would warrant not one, but a whole series of books!
Don’t underestimate the power of sharing your story. Especially if it’s been nagging you to come out.
The moment you say yes, the next steps will appear.
If you’ve been waiting for a sign, let this be it.
