I’m a mom. I’m a writer. Sometimes these two pieces of me go together swimmingly. The kids provide me with lots of material, which is kind of them. Other times, though, I worry about my honest approach to writing.
What will happen with they google me? What will they think? What will they know? Will be they ready for the depth of what I write about and what I share of my life?
I know it’ll happen. I don’t think it has already, but I can’t say for sure. Will I even know?
If you haven’t read my story, I share that I was raped when I was thirteen years old. I admit in that story that I was suicidal at one point. I’ve been thinking about writing more about that time. But then I wonder…do I want my kids to know? Do I want to tell them first? When do I share?
A therapist once warned me that as my children neared the tender age of thirteen, I might have anxiety as I drew parallels between their lives and mine. My oldest turns thirteen this spring, 24 years past my assault. Two dozen years after I was attacked. And I would say that I’m starting to have anxiety more and more frequently.
I’ve asked some confidants when I should sit my kids down and tell them what happened to me. How do I tell them this horrible truth? The consensus is that I’ll know what to say and I’ll know when to say it. But in the meantime, I worry they’ll stumble upon my words. I hope that if they do…they let me know, so I can tell them I’m okay. I can tell them I love them – I love me. I can address the flood of emotions they’ll experience and hug them, if they’ll let me. My oldest isn’t much of a hugger…and I don’t see that changing as he gets older. But I hope he lets me reassure him.
So, until they discover my secrets or it becomes clear to me to share with them, I’ll keep taking deep breaths. And I’ll keep wondering what will happen when my kids search their mama’s name on the Internet. And I’ll keep surrounding them with all the love I can, so they know there’s a safe place to land if they need to.