We bloggers share every time we write. We share our thoughts, advice and experiences. No matter what it is we write about, the moment we press ‘publish’ we agree to share. Why?
Personally I share for various reasons. For a long time I wrote to offload. To make sense of life as it happened. During Daniels illness I wrote in despair, I shared my fears and dumped my anger into the blogosphere. So many of you read and came back with comments of comfort, encouragement and understanding. In this instance I shared for my own ends. It was I who hugely benefited from it.
Last week a blogger, called Harsh Reality reblogged a post I wrote in April called ‘how do I get more followers on my blog?’. This was a post I wrote last year for new bloggers. When I posted it I did so to help others. It took a while but last week a large number found it and hopefully benefited from it. Definitely a case of caring is sharing.
However the other day I wrote another post and pressed publish. It was the hardest post ever for me to share. It was called ‘To the one who stole my childhood’. Why did I share it? For two reasons, one was to prove to myself that he no longer had any hold on my life, but the other reason was there also, the hope that someone might read it who needed to. Someone who might read the comments where Chatter master wrote ‘you are stronger than you know’, and would begin to realise they were. Someone who might begin to believe there is hope, they can survive and more importantly they can one day experience happiness.
Having posted it I wondered how I would feel the next day? I woke up and held my breath, lying in bed refusing to look at my phone. Eventually I bit the bullet and was met with a sea of comments, kind and encouraging comments. So many had taken the time to write. I pushed back tears, as I’d shed enough of them over the years. I got up and felt tall. I have felt strong ever since.
This evening I was watching the news. A lady named Fiona Doyle came on. Her father had been found guilty two years ago of the most appalling abuse against her. His sentence was twelve years with nine suspended due to his age and infirmity. She was devastated. She appeared on television, radio and in the papers and in the end the sentence was challenged as being ‘unduly lenient’. Today she got her justice. Her seventy four year old father was sentenced to nine years in jail.
As I watched her beaming on the steps of the courthouse surrounded by her family, I thought to myself, ‘now that is going public’. Then I heard her speak, “I hope this gives courage to all those out there”. I have been thinking about what she said since.
I did write that letter, and I did press publish, but only to a selective audience. I did not share on facebook and it has bugged me ever since. Why not? Am I afraid? Embarrassed? Ashamed? Or all three?
I don’t have the answer, but I am worried it is number three, ‘Ashamed’. And all I can say is ‘Feck’. I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, believe me, but whenever I think of friends I know reading that letter I think that is what I feel. It looks like I’ve a bit more work to do.
As I ponder the truth, I salute Fiona Doyle. Someone who has made a difference, to me and many many more around the country. Someone who wasn’t ashamed.