Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” A year ago I knew my mother didn’t have long to live, but she didn’t want anyone to know, so I had to blog about death without letting on why I was focused on that. That was very hard. My blog readers were patient with me until I was able to explain (at length) what was going on, although that didn’t happen until after she had died.
It is agonizing to carry a story you can’t tell. I think Angelou got that right. Sometimes such a story goes untold because the carrier can’t articulate it or doesn’t even realize she has a story to tell. Sometimes the carrier has been sworn to secrecy or knows that to tell will hurt others. Sometimes the carrier has buried the story so deep she doesn’t realize how much it’s affecting her, limiting her vision and shaping her fears. An untold story can become calcified in guilt and denial and never get out at all.
When I was growing up, I never told anyone what was going on with me. I was afraid to be known and afraid of betraying my family. Maybe I overcompensate now, spilling it all for the whole online world to read. Oh, well. We’re each twisted in our own way from our childhoods.