i will become indigestible. i will grow spikes
Through the process of daily blogging, I'm exploring more personal, vulnerable, honest writings in the privacy of my own journal. And it's bringing up a lot of icky memories, particularly some memories where my vulnerability was weaponized online, being publicly shamed for clout, money, and sympathy.
These things happened almost 10 years ago, and while the fear associated with them are little, they are not non-existent. Maybe I have to go completely anonymous to explore further, deeper writings. Anonymity would mean safety, protection from predators. Maybe I'm afraid of being known as I am because that increases the chance of being misunderstood. Maybe I fear becoming known on a wider scale because it would put me under a microscope for more scrutiny.
Maybe I don't have the stomach to be misunderstood, dismissed, or hazed.
God knows how much of my life I've spent being misunderstood and misunderstanding myself. I want to forgive myself for the past, both the harm that has been done to me, and the harm that I have done to others.
In this life, no one is innocent. We must be immature before mature, and while I like to believe most of the harm I have caused is through negligence, it doesn't mean that's entirely true, or that the harm is justifiable or excusable. I'm not saying this makes it more acceptable than intentional harm, it just makes it different.
When I think about my more heart-breaking moments, that pain feels more intentional, like targeted malice. But maybe that's how pain always feels in the moment, regardless of the intent. In any case, I decided to bow out of the internet war and never dared to tell my side of the story, because I was not in the privilege to do so.
Someone who had a measurable amount of influence, let's say, someone who has tens of thousands of people versus my thousands? Yeah, there was no way I wouldn't be drowned out, suffocated under all the reply-guys and hateful comments, trolls and past peers alike.
Those people, who had family wealth and support, compared to me on my lonesome?
I was just worried about surviving, while the other parties were worried about "getting their lick in".
How I survived multiple onslaughts online is beyond me. Maybe I didn't survive them, and that pieces of me were obliterated, and this is me still feeling the emptiness of those missing pieces.
It doesn't matter anyways. In these scenarios, in online wars, everyone is bloodied. Battered. Broken. Some of these wounds will heal, some will scar, and some will re-open every now and then.
This self-expression is a recognition of the wounds that have a tendency to reopen. These wounds are not nearly as lethal as they once were. I admit, I've been doing patchwork healing — hastily stitching these wounds closed whenever they threatened to expose too much. But now, I feel I am in the right place, with the right mindset and right spirit to finally address this long-ago pain properly.
I'm no longer content to hide from visibility online, terrified of being swallowed whole by misrepresentation. I refuse to be reduced to a single unflattering moment, to be flattened into a caricature that others can easily dismiss or attack. Instead of shrinking myself to avoid being consumed, I will become indigestible. I will grow spikes. My fullness and complexity will be my protection.
This is how I fight back. No, I'm not going on a 'correction' campaign, spilling my side and enlisting others to share their sides of the story. Instead, I must be courageous. I must refuse to let past wounds dictate what parts of myself I'm allowed to share.
In writing publicly each day, I'm committing to consistent, deliberate acts of authentic expression. This practice honors my vulnerability and my boundaries. It allows me to share on my own terms, away from digital battlefields where self-defense and weaponized words become the only language that matters.
I now recognize my power to choose the environments where I participate. I'm cultivating this space as a quiet, peaceful garden — a place for meditation and stillness, where compassion and patience can gradually calm the internal chaos that once defined me.
Perhaps this is what my first therapist meant by rewriting my story. Back then, I couldn't grasp the concept — not when pain splattered every wall of my experience, when metaphorical bodies littered the floor of my past, and when so many former loved ones had become strangers.
I'm beginning to understand that rewriting isn't about erasing what happened. It's more about being able to interpret the old stories, to contextualize them, and ultimately, to determine what it means for who I am becoming.
Each post, through the very act of writing it, reveals who I am and illuminates who I am becoming. In this consistency, I'm discovering unexpected liberation and purpose. This is what I hoped for, so I'm happy, but gosh - in the manner it is unfolding is surprising to me. Goes to show how much you don't know until you start knowing.
I can't predict where this journey will lead, but I trust that with each written word, the path grows clearer. As I gradually reclaim my power to shape my own narrative, what once seemed impossible now is an exciting possibility. This excitement is felt somewhere deep within the core of who I am.
The terrifyingly powerful beast within is emerging.
Thanks for being here.
Sincerely,
Nadine ♥