Honey and toothaches

An oath of sorts, from writer to reader.

For the love of depth, dip pen and journal! I love my life!

Dear reader,

Writing to/for you almost feels like a rash, itchy and I can’t resist the urge to scratch, pick the scab, watch it bleed and heal, over and over again.

I’ve thought about why I do this, wanting to tell you about pieces of my life, thoughts ranging from my end-of-life wishes to how I’ll do anything not to touch the door handle of a bathroom. What is it that makes me want to let you in, without you even asking for it? It’s vulnerable, and I flinch, close my eyes, whisper “Oh Lord” and hear something say “this is another potential for future embarrassment,” but I push the publish button anyway. Why do I do this to myself, for you, for me, for us?

Someone has asked me recently, if I don’t think that I’m cheaply talking about my life to a stranger online, and I just shrugged, while silently acknowledged they could be right, and maybe I should stop. But then I’ve asked myself, if sharing my life will make me feel all depleted and leave me with no story since I’ve already put “everything” out there, and it kind of came back the opposite. The more I write, the more I discover a new story or remember an old and forgotten one, about myself or the world. It is a choice that hangs on a thin line, between foolishness and salvation.

A voice in my head likes to remind me how I’m not a native English speaker and so maybe how I construct my sentences might be funny without me even realizing it. What if a word I choose doesn’t make sense in that context? What if I use a dad joke but I don’t know if it’s a dad joke since it still sounds so amusing in my language? I worry if I’m being laughed at without knowing. The benefit of the doubt doesn’t benefit me. But at the same time, why does my original voice feel so intoxicating it pulls me deeper and deeper? Into waters of its non-native Englishness, knitting words in a shape of a cardigan that would fit my soul perfectly like the foot of Cinderella in the glass slipper. It’s like a person of its own that insistently implores me, “come.”

I’m all for “depth” and I'm all for “raw.” And of course it hasn’t always been healthy for me or convenient for others (sobs in utmost regret). Oversharing is a monster that lurks around me like a shadow, and shamefully many times, it devours me. I can easily submit to it, because I long for someone to “hear” me. As a relatively quiet person, there’s rage and wound from all the times my words were talked over, cut short, or I simply took too much time to think, and by the time I wanted to speak, the topic had changed trajectories already. So I ended up never saying it altogether. Writing to/for you is an honoring of those words, “my words,” talked over, cut short, left unsaid, want to be said. Because it disturbs me in a beautiful way, when I think of all the things we could have been told there were in the beginning, God chooses to say in the beginning, was “The Word.” While The Word of God gives life, this word of mine might give sweetness, so I promise you the possibility of finding the honey, but also the toothache.

Honesty is a virtue I treasure, and Lord knows how much of writing to/for you has made me taste that honesty is bitter until it becomes sweet. I can’t fully claim that I’m a writer yet, all I know is that it lights up some golden lanterns inside of me. Not everyone writes about their lives and try to make it sound like poetry, and it’s okay, not everyone has to. Like soldiers go to war to save others, maybe writers do the same in a different way, sacrificing a slice of their privacy, sharing a tiny bit of their lives, so someone else feels saved. Isn’t it all interdependence? Because someone gotta be the bait, someone gotta be pierced by a hook, someone has to play Jonah, someone has to drown in the water, and eventually be vomited by a fish. And in this case, call me fool or savior, I choose that person to be me (side note; I’m still learning how to swim, literally! and metaphorically?)

That being said, I hope you stay in this home with me, with love, grace, respect, and curiosity. I want to share my words now, and not wait until when I’m already “older” and “wiser,” simply because life doesn’t care. Sometimes it ends at 23, and sometimes at 100, so what? If you’re up for hearing pieces about the life of an “overly” emotional Tanzanian woman who’s just starting to dip her toes into the salty sea of adulthood, you’re home. Pour yourself some orange juice, I’ll light a candle and drop the needle on some indie-folk vinyl record. And we can sit next to an open window as we talk. Honey and toothaches, I promise.

Yours,

Writer/really writer?