I write because I couldn't say “no”

Many a time, I have wished to share my thoughts and secrets with some stranger—someone I meet once, pour all my secrets onto, and then never meet again. I like to confess but cannot bear keeping secrets. I long to say: "This is who I am, and this is what I’ve done." Of course, I don't reveal everything about myself, but I wish I could.

Many a time, I have wished to share my thoughts and secrets with some stranger—someone I meet once, pour all my secrets onto, and then never meet again. I like to confess but cannot bear keeping secrets. I long to say: "This is who I am, and this is what I’ve done." Of course, I don't reveal everything about myself, but I wish I could.

I discovered this about myself by accident, probably around elementary school. Whenever I felt something I couldn’t reveal, I wrote it down. Whether it was admiration for a classmate, dislike for another, a forbidden wish, or a desire deemed inappropriate by society’s concepts of wrong, shame, and sin—writing freed me from all those taboos. Recording my wishes and desires, seeing them written on paper in front of me, distances them from my imagination. Writing down secrets and confessions liberates me from the feeling of guilt.

Psychologists say that sharing pain eases its burden, releasing it from within us and letting it drift in the air between us and the person we confide in. Thus, the pain becomes lighter and smaller. I shared my thoughts, dreams, and sorrows with the pages until my notes, diaries, and journal entries turned into poetry. I’m not sure exactly when that transformation occurred, but it did.

When I began writing poetry, I believed I wasn’t composing poetry—I was documenting it. Perhaps I hide behind metaphors and pronouns, using “she” instead of “I” to avoid admitting that these poetic confessions were mine. I bury my thoughts, my demons, and my obsessions, trying to keep the rhythm in check with prepositions and conjunctions. However, poetry remains a revelation, a declaration, a disclosure, and a confession, but also a form of healing.

Anger has been simmering inside me since childhood—a childhood where I couldn’t say “no” to anything. No to loneliness, no to harassment, no to bullying. Anger simmers inside me at the emotional blackmail I experienced in my adolescence and, later, the manipulation and human blackmail over my daughters that I faced during my marriage. I’ve seen every form of blackmail and rarely found the strength to say “no.”

Writing as a remedy for the loneliness, pain, and anger

Personal secrets have always been fertile ground for poetry, but it was the American poet Robert Lowell who first removed the mask that poets wear when writing about their personal secrets. He wrote about his struggles with his wife and his battle with mental illness. In his writings, he revealed the secrets that most people consider shameful or a source of disgrace, and he refused to use metaphors. While I, after five poetry collections, believed that poetry had abandoned me.

I screamed, cheered, and cried, but during my struggles with life, my mental disorders, my daughters, and everything I couldn’t speak about—I discovered that poetry hadn’t abandoned me. The realization came to me like a moment of enlightenment that illuminated my mind. But now, I feared confession. I was consumed by an inner censor that fears the outside world. My personal experiences had become too complex to confess to as easily as I had before.

Psychologists say that sharing pain eases its burden, releasing it from within us and letting it drift in the air between us and the person we confide in. Thus, the pain becomes lighter and smaller. I shared my thoughts, dreams, and sorrows with the pages until my notes, diaries, and journal entries turned into poetry. I’m not sure exactly when that transformation occurred, but it did.

I went back to reading confessional poetry and autobiographical novels to regain confidence in what I write and think, to remind myself that I’m not the only one clinging to writing as a way to understand who I am and to tell the world who I am.

As my visits to my therapist continued, I learned more and recalled things I had forgotten, things my mind had pushed to the back of my memory. So I decided to write down everything I remembered, and with each memory or event I recorded, I remembered more and more, as if it were a well that never runs out of water.

I tell my therapist, “I am filled with anger. I always want to start a fight with someone.” My anger is constantly on the edge, waiting for the slightest provocation to explode at whoever happens to be in front of me at the time.

I don't reveal everything about myself, but I wish I could. Whenever I felt something I couldn’t reveal, I wrote it down. Whether it was admiration for a classmate, dislike for another, a forbidden wish, or a desire deemed inappropriate by society’s concepts of wrong, shame, and sin—writing freed me from all those taboos. Recording my wishes and desires, seeing them written on paper in front of me, distances them from my imagination. Writing down secrets and confessions liberates me from the feeling of guilt.

Anger has been simmering inside me since childhood—a childhood where I couldn’t say “no” to anything. No to loneliness, no to harassment, no to bullying. Anger simmers inside me at the emotional blackmail I experienced in my adolescence, and later, the manipulation and human blackmail over my daughters that I faced during my marriage.

I’ve seen every form of blackmail and rarely found the strength to say “no.” In recent years, I’ve gotten the habit of saying “no” to everything and everyone, just to prove to myself that I can say it.

Rediscovering myself every day

Journaling restores my balance; it helps me dismantle the anger within me, slow the flood of thoughts, and manage the mood swings I constantly wrestle with. It calms and soothes the child inside this adult woman’s body, even if just for a brief pause in life. I write to remind myself that I am truly here, especially when everything around me feels unreal, especially when I’m alone.

When I began writing poetry, I believed I wasn’t composing poetry—I was documenting it. Perhaps I hide behind metaphors and pronouns, using “she” instead of “I” to avoid admitting that these poetic confessions were mine. I bury my thoughts, my demons, and my obsessions, trying to keep the rhythm in check with prepositions and conjunctions. However, poetry remains a revelation, a declaration, a disclosure, and a confession, but also a form of healing.

I write to reclaim myself and affirm my identity, which wavers inside me from time to time. I write to fight the existential questions that have been with me since childhood and seem like they’ll never end. I ask myself: Am I the child or the mother? The poet or the visual artist? Am I Sara, who loves everyone, or the other Sara who doesn’t care about anyone?

I remember the first event I ever wrote in my personal notebook: it was about a crush on a classmate in elementary school. I wrote him a love letter, but the classmate sitting next to me revealed my secret to the Arabic teacher, who read my little love letter aloud to the entire class.

After days of everyone making fun of me, one by one, they started asking me to write their love letters for them. I didn’t hesitate. I wrote dozens of love letters and learned everyone’s secrets. I went from having no close friends to being everyone's friend and confidante. At the end of each letter, I promised its sender that I wouldn’t reveal the name of their crush.

Journaling restores my balance; it helps me dismantle the anger within me, slow the flood of thoughts, and manage the mood swings I constantly wrestle with. It calms and soothes the child inside this adult woman’s body, even if just for a brief pause in life. I write to remind myself that I am truly here, especially when everything around me feels unreal, especially when I’m alone.

The letters always started with “My love” or “My beloved,” and then I’d fill in the name of the person it was addressed to. But the end of the letters never had a signature. The lovers were too afraid to confess their identities. They would slip the letters into their crushes’ bags, and suddenly, every boy and girl in class was a potential lover to another. And I alone knew the certain truth.

I felt powerful and victorious after learning everyone’s secrets. Soon, all the students in class began to approach me in an attempt to get close to me and find out the secrets of the rest of the students, but I kept those secrets to myself. Not out of honesty, but because revealing them would strip me of the power and triumph I held over everyone. I relished the attention, and loved having everyone around me to find out who liked whom, after having been friendless and the target of ridicule. They used to mock the size of my big nose and the two braids my mother insisted on styling my hair into.

How I wished for prettier eyes, a smaller nose, softer hair, and friends who loved me without any ulterior motives. But that didn’t happen, so I wrote hundreds of love letters—none of which were mine.

How I wished for prettier eyes, a smaller nose, softer hair, and friends who loved me without any ulterior motives. But that didn’t happen, so I wrote hundreds of love letters—none of which were mine.

* The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22