Why do I feel naked?

Self-analysis of a writer

Waking up drenched in sweat, haunted by the familiar nightmare where I suddenly realize I’m at school—completely naked.

This is exactly how I feel whenever I post and publish something that I have put the uttermost effort and heart into. But why?

Shame

I don’t think there is anything comparable to the feeling I get from seeing my thoughts written out. The weight finally lifts from me when a thought that’s been floating around in my head for hours, days, or weeks finally lands on paper and suddenly everything makes sense. I have found the common thread. It’s like birthday and Christmas at the same time for an overthinker like me. “It makes sense. I make sense!”

I will reread the final pieces of my work repeatedly, not because I’m not sure about what I just wrote. No. The contrary is the case. I am happy to have a map, a layout for my thoughts. Maybe even a justification of why and how I am the way I am.

How do I end up feeling so ashamed for something I am so proud of?

A matter that I can’t understand by overthinking and analyzing; instead, I must feel my way there (I suck at this).

I am a very open person; I voice my opinions regularly, loudly (if needed). I certainly don’t feel shame in having an attitude.

But written down, it is just so much more vulnerable. You can’t take back the words you say. That’s true. You can’t relisten to them either. But black on white, written down, that’s forever. It feels everlasting to me. An eternal proof of my vulnerability.

I do care what people think about me.

I don’t have any writer friends (yet), I feel judged. I don’t think that people who don’t have to write to understand themselves and their surroundings will ever truly grasp how much I truly need this. The thought of “Why would she post that? Why would she say that? Everyone thinks (first, I doubt that), and not everyone has to share their deepest, darkest thoughts.”.

Well, I guess I do. I must write to become proof of my own being.
Seeing my thoughts on paper makes them real; I can distinguish between my own beliefs and what I am made to believe. Which thoughts are truly mine?

Before I think in circles for hours on my own, I’d rather write my thoughts down, try to make sense of them, and have them as proof of my time spent thinking.

My “map of self” could be used against me.

This is a very common thought I have. I show my thoughts and critics in my writings. Critique society and myself. I give people the power to do the same with me. I can deal with that. If there is one thing I own, it is that I can justify all my actions, words, and behaviors. A little gift that I got through a funny childhood—rhetoric.

However, it´s not the same with sharing my feelings. That I can’t justify. I understand that not everyone experiences emotions in the same way I do. It’s deep and dark and twisted. But it is me. Not justifiable, but me.

I still strive to be understood, under circumstances that allow me not to. I should probably abandon the thought and graving of being understood. It would free me. I am befriending the fact that there is a teeny tiny minority that will get me, and that should be enough.

I feel the need to justify my feelings!

I need to write to find my own common thread. I feel compelled to justify myself to myself. And with it being written out and published, I give everyone the power to judge and see the real me. Not that I am a totally different person in real life, but I just don’t share my feelings. Who would understand me anyway? Is there a need to be understood? Why do I give it so much importance in the first place?

I feel like I must fight for the right to my own thoughts.
For the opinions I have and the feelings I feel—whatever I am currently writing about. It doesn’t feel like mine because I don’t think that people will necessarily understand me.

I must admit that I am not used to people listening to me without fighting to be heard to begin with. I know that a lot of my shame stems from that. Which is exactly why writing in peace and quiet, just for myself, fills me with so much joy. It helps me to feel myself.

I want to carry that joy beyond writing by sharing myself with others. I surrender to my art, my feelings, and my being.

My vulnerability shall be my death then.

Writing is my therapy.

You can argue that I don’t necessarily have to publish and could just keep it to myself. I want people to see what I feel like and maybe understand themselves a little bit better, just like I do when I read something. Connecting on such a deep level, thought to thought, is something that is not only a huge privilege but also one of the most intimate and vulnerable ways to engage.

Translating myself through words only makes sense on paper, not in real life, face to face. It’s just not an equivalent for me.

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One last thing before I end this.

My urge to write will always be bigger than the fear of being seen. The joy I feel after drafting something new, writing and rereading my text will never compare to the fear of getting misunderstood. The act of creation is bigger than the judgment that most likely only comes from myself.

You can’t feel shame in something that you really want to do—maybe a little bit, but never enough for it to stop you. There will always be an urge, a calling, a desire—whatever you call it—until you finally do what you must do.

For me, it is exactly this.

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If you want to read more, here is my summer recap, a personal reflection :)