I feel the need to clear the air this morning. I may be writing this blog post with a few people in mind, but my message is for the entire reading world. It seems like common sense, and yet, this need to be addressed.
One event, a single moment in time, will be perceived in as many different ways as there are people sharing the experience of that event or moment. If you don’t believe this, read some consumer reviews of movies, books, or products on Amazon. If another person’s experience differs from yours, does this mean one of you is lying? Most of the time the answer to that question is no. It is also possible for two conflicting statements to be true about a single experience. Though I write about one aspect of my story, it is not a complete picture. For example, I may write about the undiagnosed anxiety I had as a child, but this does not mean that I had an awful childhood. I can write about my struggles with faith and church, but this shouldn’t imply that I’ve rejected Jesus or Christianity.
There was an episode in season two of This Is Us that really stuck with me. Kevin, the typical middle child, was in rehab, and his therapist had the whole family come in to one of his therapy sessions. His mother and siblings seemed blindsided by Kevin’s interpretation of the upbringing he received. Four people in that room grew up in the same house, and four people saw those same years together in four very different ways. Our family is no different. My sister and I did not see the events that happened in our home in exactly the same way. And the version of my story I have to tell does not resemble that of my parents.
Most of the stories I’ve written center around depression, marriage, faith, and parenting both of my children; one of whom is typical and one of whom is autistic. Since my battles with anxiety and depression began as a child, I’ve included a few stories about my childhood. I also write about my extensive family history of depression and suicide. I’ve worried about hurting people with my writing. An author friend of mine told me, “Just write your version of the truth. That’s all you can do.” I can only promise not to inflate or fabricate details. I will tell you about my emotions, my take-aways, my memories. These essays are my stories.
There are family members that have forbidden me from writing about the important roles they played in my life. I do not believe this is a reasonable request. I did not live these stories in a bubble. It is impossible to tell my stories without mentioning other people that played a part in shaping those stories. No one owns the exclusive rights to a life experience shared by multiple people. No one family member owns the exclusive rights to a shared family history. I have consulted a lawyer on all the steps I need to take in order to protect myself from liability. It grieves me to have to do so. It doesn’t have to be this way, especially since I don’t seek to vilify anyone. If any family wants to write their stories and their perspective of our shared experiences, I will not stand in their way. Even if their stories paint me in a less-than-flattering light.
I say all of this because my words are already being twisted and misinterpreted. I am not an atheist. I was not physically or sexually abused as a child. I’m appalled and dumbfounded that anyone has come to these conclusions after reading my blog posts. My book is not a tell-all exposé. It barely even registers as controversial. I’m annoyed that I have just started the editing process, nowhere near to having a published book in my hands, and yet here we are, addressing the inevitable backlash.
As I design my new space for writing/reading/crafting/solitude, I have found prints on Etsy of some of my favorite quotes. This one arrived a few days ago. It will hang over my desk. I leave you with this.
