Not my time.

I like to think that I bleed truth through my writing.

Open.  Honest.  Without fear.  Without shame.  Real.  Raw.  Me.

But the biggest truth is that I proceed with extreme caution.  Whatever I choose to write.  Whatever I choose to share.  Whatever I choose to bleed.  I’m very selective about it.

My life is not my own.

As much as I would like to believe it is, it’s not!  I am a product of everyone I’ve ever encountered.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  Millions even.  Experiences.  Conversations.  Observations.  I am the combination of everything and everyone I’ve ever experienced.

We all are.

So many people have contributed to the Sandra I’ve become.  People who have shaped me.  Changed me.  Guided me.  Misguided me.

My stories are not mine alone.

I haven’t written anything on my blog for a while.  I haven’t been able to.  Writing, for me, serves a very simple purpose.  It gives me a visual for the chaos in my mind.  Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m thinking until I put that pen to paper.  I don’t know what I’m feeling until my fingers hit the keyboard.  Words are my truth.  I write.  I read.  I understand.  I share.

But for the last couple weeks, my visuals paint a different picture.  The things I’ve been processing.  Thinking.  Feeling.  Doing.  I cannot share openly.

Those stories are attached to people who have played a much larger role in my life.  In my development.  In my journey.  People I care about.  People I love and have loved.  People that have dedicated their entire life to ensuring no one knows who they really are.  What they really do.  How they really feel.  What they really believe.

Their lies became my lies.  Their lies became my silence.  Their lies keep me silent still.

I can speak freely about the impact a stranger had on me.  I don’t know them.  You don’t know them.  I don’t care about them.  Neither do you.

But what happens when you love the people who hurt you the most?  I know them.  You know them.  Or maybe you think you do.  How can I bleed truth if it comes at the expense of their reputations and relationships?  If I make the choice to live a life of honesty, does that give me permission to reveal their lies?  And if I don’t, does that mean I am not as honest as I think I am?

2015.  It’s been the biggest transition year of my life.  I have figured out so much about myself in the last few months.  Made decisions.  Shared.  Laughed.  Cried.  Loved.  Lost.  Worked.  Lived.  I am in a peaceful place.  I am in a better place today then I have been in years.  I love who I am.  Where I am.  I have lost the need to control where I’m going.  I have released anger.  Guilt.  Pain.  Frustration.  I am good.

I’m great.

Absolutely amazing.

But getting there hasn’t been easy.  It’s never been easy.  Getting there has required a lot of processing.  Reliving experiences I never wanted to relive.  Digging deep into the lies I’ve been forced to feed the world.  Not my lies.  Facing the reality of some of the decisions I have made recently and why.  I’ve had to find myself.  Again.  After already finding myself so many times before.

It would have been impossible for me to understand any of this without that process.  The same way it would be impossible for you to understand who I am, without first understanding what has shaped me.  Who has shaped me.

I want to share that so badly.

I want to live a life of honesty.

There are so many stories I wish I could tell.  So many experiences I wish I could be more open about.

I am simply made of many closed wounds, just waiting for the right time to bleed.

But now is not that time.