How I Tell My Story

5 years ago
This article was written by a member of the SheKnows Community. It has not been edited, vetted or reviewed by our editorial staff, and any opinions expressed herein are the writer’s own.

My voice.

Everyone is busy searching for their voice right now, pouring over their words, choosing the ones that said something this year and hoping that they spoke to the heart of their audience.

I did it too; I took a journey through my words and realized that my voice was missing.

Image: Visual Dichotomy via Flickr

From the outside, I saw a blog that bulged with fiction. Stories and tales, their free fringes hanging loose and ready for a prompt, a picture or a provocation to move the plot along.

Characters and people who existed in my imagination filling up the spaces of my corner of the Internet.

I used fancy words, I designed poems and sentences that spoke of strength, wisdom and heartbreak, but none of those pieces will be featured in the Huffington Post, not one of them is going to earn me the right to write for a parenting site or produce a viral sensation.

No, my stories  might have been beautiful, intricate, intimate and heartfelt but they were not written with a journalistic touch.

They were very few memoirs this year that told my story.

And so many things happened this year in the world (in my world) that were worthy of my words, but looking around this place it seems I chose to put them in the mouths of characters, their personifications acting like a stand in for me.

I have never used my space as a soapbox, not even when I was in the middle of my infertility. I spoke about it, of course; it was after all the reason I signed into blogger and brought this corner to life, but I never became a voice in the wilderness for it.

Not here.

My life has many stories that could use a soapbox; parts of me that have been exposed in tiny amounts and cloaked in verbiage but never given the spotlight they deserve.

I think it’s because I never wanted to have those things become my whole story.

I didn’t want the labels of what I had endured to become my story.

Survivor of domestic violence as a child.

Survivor of molestation from ages 10-12 at the hands of a relative.

Child of an alcoholic father who suffered from PTSD.

Daughter of a working mom of the 1980’s with big ambitions and precious little time to attend basketball games or be home in time to make/serve/clean up dinner.

The girl with a reputation who was “promiscuous” and probably deserved the 5 times she was date raped in her life. (Women like that ask for it don’t we?)

A young woman, who was talked about, judged and bullied long before that word went viral.

A woman who has suffered from bouts of depression and anxiety on and off her whole life.

A woman who takes an antidepressant.

A woman who has endured heartbreak and been too naïve or gullible to realize that blaming only herself is a cowardly act.

A woman with a checkered past.

An infertility survivor.

A mom who works outside her home.

A mom with children in daycare.

I have several posts inside me that are burning, reaching, possibly even screaming to get out. Yet I have found that this year I made a clear choice to put tape on my own mouth and I gave the microphone to the muse inside my head instead.

Or at least I thought, at first glance, that I had.

Until I looked again and there I was.

Nestled neatly inside 33 character sketches, bellowing out among 100 words or 17 syllables, asking forgiveness, clarity or acceptance with every keystroke, sharing parts of my story every time I hit publish.

There they were; my thoughts on gun control, my opinions on gay marriage, the love I had not only for my children but for the children of Newtown, the horror (and long subdued shame) I felt about date rape, and the depression I was desperately trying to climb out of (again).

For various reasons, I turned to the clan of my imagination, allowing them to bellow, cheer, love unconditionally, negotiate, pontificate or seek revenge or closure for me. I don’t know it that was courageous, cowardly or just plain lazy but over and over again this year, it was the way I chose to express myself.

In retrospect I believe it was simply a way to heal, to process and still be able to tell my story.
To think: my words, my voice, my thoughts were here all the time.

I had just chosen a different way to express them.

So if you ever came by to read and all you saw was fiction, chances were that story was just one way that I was writing my way out.

Kir writes for shoes & cupcakes at

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