Maybe it was worth it

When I was writing this book, I found many roadblocks that I didn't anticipate. Sometimes the words came easily, other times, I'd draw a blank. Because I spent much of my life in silence, the old habits involved clamming up. There were times I felt like I was deliberately shutting down to avoid thinking about the events.
During those times, it was like trying to pull a wisp of paper from melted taffy. It was extremely frustrating, and I would just go onto another chapter and begin writing elsewhere. This method actually worked pretty well.
The one chapter I could never bring myself to write was the one about my mother's death. I'd begin, and after about three sentences, my esophagus would feel tight. Bile would rise up in my throat, and I'd gag. Smells of hot copper would fill my nose. I'd find myself thinking about everything else that I should be doing besides writing. I'd get up and go do those things, thinking I'd return to my desk and resume writing that chapter.
However, upon my return, I'd finish writing in a chapter I was already well into writing. I'd even start new chapters, my fingers flying over the keyboard while music poured into my brain from my headphones. I felt pretty productive in those days.
I last wrote in a chapter about 6 months ago. I busied myself with reviewing my other chapters. I'd write in my online blog. I wrote letters to family members, and busied myself cleaning house and bullshitting with the neighbors.
This last chapter has sat untouched, unwritten since then. I knew once I completed that chapter, that my story would be ready. I'd find a publisher, however many years that took. Sometimes I wonder if this was my way of prolonging the process. My story has always been mine. Yes, this happened to my whole family. They were devastated by my mom's murder. They deal with the fallout to this day. Still, if I published my book, my story would no longer belong to me. It would belong to all of you. For a while, I wasn't sure if I wanted to share all of this, mostly because I felt it would somehow lesson my story. It would expose it to scrutiny, ridicule, but mostly, I stood the chance of being dismissed.
All of these years, that has been my deepest insecurity. I hate being dismissed. It might be because I have spent most of my life being questioned, blamed, scrutinized. It hurts to the core to reveal your deepest hurt only to have someone summarize your whole experience with some lame, flippant comment that made you sound like a complete nut job.
I don't care anymore. It's because I looked back over the years. I'm proud. I'm proud I overcame, survived. I'm proud my story has touched the lives of others that I told. I'm proud I didn't back off, shut up and bend to the will of those who prefer silence over truth.
I hope my story helps you. I hope you find your own healing.
I present to you, the story of....my worst day.
I hope you find something in it to help you heal too.