When Sharing Might Not Always Be Such a Good Idea
From a woman who has revealed a lot of secrets
I was going to write something light and vim-y this week, though after engaging with the Epstein files, I’ll admit that levity is feeling a little thin on the ground. But then I remembered that I’ve always promised to be as honest as I could be in navigating both the black, white and grey of my life and the truth is that I’m not feeling better yet, so I don’t want to pretend.
The journalistic creed ‘write from the scar not the wound,’ has always been a key tenet of my work. Partly because I know full well that I sound batshit in prose when I’m in the weeds of something, but also because I always feel that distance makes the better piece. You can’t really rationalise your thoughts while they pulsate through your body and I’m not in the business of filing substandard drivel. There’s no perspective when it’s still ‘live’, as it were.
In an effort to release some of the weight I’ve been carrying, I sat down for three hours yesterday and wrote an essay about the past four weeks. Even though it isn’t entirely resolved, it’s definitely moved to the next stage, and I felt ready to engage more critically with it. I don’t feel so scrambled any more, I’m not doubting my lens on reality. The essay will likely never see the light of day, which is unusual for me, because of this space. Very little has happened to me over the past three years that hasn’t been chronicled in some way. It is uncomfortable for me to be coy, and I hope you all know that I’m not trying to tease anyone. It’s just beyond a boundaries call and I suppose part of writing it out, seeing my sentences dance across the page was a reminder that not everything is up for public discussion. Not everything has to be tied up with a pretty editorial bow.
