Somewhere a few posts back I had a revelation about myself and why I blog under a nom de plume. I’d thought it had to do with being bipolar and some of the whacky stuff that brings into my life. I didn’t realize the glaring fact that in my real life virtually everyone knows I’m bipolar, and many of them know I periodically see bouncing orange balls that don’t exist. People I’ve worked with often know, because it came up naturally in conversation, even. Since I do happen to be an artist, people find it normal and often even some sort of badge of pride that I’m bipolar. Think Van Gogh, I guess. I’m lucky that way. So… if everyone knows that, why on earth reach for some anonymity?
*BANG* Right between the eyes.
The childhood sexual, emotional, and physical abuse.
*wilt into a heap on the floor*
Oh I do not want to admit that. I don’t want to admit that I feel like I have to hide myself because I was abused as a child. It wasn’t even my fault that I was abused as a kid. Yet my shame knows so few limits that I cringe timidly behind a pen name and every trick for blogging anonymously that I can bring to bear. I worry someone may out me. I worry that my mother, who I both love and hate might find my blog here and see what I’ve written about her neglect that was a helpmate to my other abuses. I don’t want to look at or acknowledge any of it.
Useful to know. Hard to deal with.
Oh, and if you do happen to know what my real name is, keep your lips zipped still, please. I’ll get past it when it works for me.
Why am I one of the lucky ones? Today I’m lucky because even though it hurts a lot to realize this, I can handle it. I don’t feel a need to do anything more drastic than write a blog post about it. That is a lucky, wonderful, and hard-earned thing.
Babbled by Immi.
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