Friday, November 19, 2010VoiceIn September of 2008 I was given some information.This information was, as they say, game changing. It made me understand that much of what I understood about my life was wrong. It made me understand that the world was not as I'd perceived it. It shocked me into realizing exactly how idealistic I am, how all too ready I am to believe that other people go through life with the same values that I have. It made me realize that certain events, certain actions, have ripple effects that catastrophically compound rather than diminish in intensity. This was damning information. Damning to people I know and still love. It nuked friendships. It decimated trusts. It took out my world with a surgical precision. And it was information that can go no further, because it would do the same to other people I love. People who do not deserve to know this information any more than I did. Which meant, as I worked through this information over many many painful months, that along with everything else, I realized that -- for once -- I could not write about something very important and personal to me and share it publicly. I could not write about it. Which has meant that, for the past two years, I have not been able to write. It's been like a big intestinal blockage. The thing that most needed to be expressed, could not come out. I could no longer write the words that needed so badly to be written. I could no longer write the words that could possibly alchemize the poison of the situation into something useful, something funny, something benign. I could no longer write. What happens when a writer cannot write the story she has to write? What happens when that inner, urgent, passionate imperative to make sense out of chaos ... cannot be given articulation? Sure, it's painful to the writer. But, as I've asked myself over and over for all this time, in the bigger picture, who cares? Does it matter? Of course it matters to me, the writer. I mean, intestinal blockages matter -- a LOT -- to the person who is blocked. But, seriously... and I'm sorry for going to this metaphor but it really actually kind of works... it's just not that interesting a subject to anyone else. Whether I write something or not, in the cosmic sense, is inconsequential. I've recently learned that another blog that I created in partnership with someone else was taken down without my permission. Oddly enough, the same person who gave me the information that turned my world upside down is the same person who erased my words from the world without my consent. I have a lot to say. And whether there's anyone out there listening is really not the point. The point is that my voice was stilled, and now I'm no longer willing to be quiet. I can protect the people I need to protect and still wake up with a roar. I can figure out how to break the silence without breaking hearts. The size of the audience is not the point. The point is voice. The point is whether a voice, anyone's voice, has a right to be heard. So, after thinking about it for a good long while, I realize that I have only three words to say: Fuck that, people. It's over. Whether anyone likes it or not, I do get to have a voice. And it does get to be heard. And you can read it or not. I don't care. The point is that no one gets to erase my words. And no one gets to hide if I decide that I have information that also needs to get out. No one gets to password protect the truth, my friends. So, starting today: more blogs. I have a fuckload of things to say. And it's about time I start saying them. # posted by Katherine Doughtie Nolan @ 5:14 AM  
Comments: YAY!!! YOU GO AHEAD AND ROAR, KATH! Great to have you back. # posted by  Roger Nolan, M.A., MFT-I : 12:26 PM
Awesome.
# posted by Jill from New York : 2:22 PM
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