Some time in the latter half of last year, I started getting ideas for writing my own book. It’s something I’ve wanted to do ever since I started writing short stories some 20 years ago, but never really got around to thinking about because I had no idea what kind of a book I wanted to write. All I knew was that it had to be a work of fiction, because fiction has always been an escape for me, even though the only other kind of writing I ever did besides those short stories was in my own journals.
And then, two years ago, my life took a turn so drastic, so profound, that some of my friends told me I’d be a fool not to write a book about it. And as that drastic, profound turn snowballed over the past year, I realized that, more than wanting to write a book, I wanted to be able to tell my story in an open, honest way. I needed an outlet to express what I truly felt about everything that had been going on in my life, and allow people relate to it without feeling like they would be judged for it.
So I started writing little notes, drawing on my most vivid memories of everything that my life had become since March 2013, recording important milestones and significant conversations. Even though that year was not to be the main focus of my book, it was the catalyst for everything that has happened since then. And that was when I discovered the most wonderful thing: by writing this book, even by making preliminary notes, I was telling the truth about what I had gone through, and that truth was slowly setting me free from the pain, the rage and the bitterness I had carried with me for so long.
That’s the most beautiful thing about the truth: no matter which way it takes us, it always ends up setting us free. It sets us free from the demons we harbor as a result of the darkness that comes with keeping a painful secret. It sets us free to choose which path we want to take after liberating ourselves from the fear of our lies catching up to us.