By Tiffany Pate
“I don’t want to write about it, so I have to.”
That was the first line in a writing session, the first time I tried to write directly about a particularly upsetting time in my life stemming from one event.
I’d alluded to, implied, and insinuated in my poems, but never spat out every ugly and shameful detail. I didn’t even like thinking about it, much less writing about it.
Generally, I’m not sure if that’s always the best approach. There are so many nuances to trauma and writing about our own truths. Who’s to say when it’s time to write about it or when it’s time to put it to bed? Well, probably a practitioner in the mental health field, and that isn’t me. I’m just a frequent customer.
As I wrote about it, I saw it just kind of lying there, in a heap of stream of consciousness, hardly even acceptable as a first draft. I felt stripped bare and bewildered.
The thought of someone I know reading it, knowing it was true and happened to me, made me shrink.
Then I thought, “That’s absurd.” He’s the one who needs to feel bad, not me. He’s the unrepentant scoundrel. I did nothing to be ashamed of, other than perhaps being monumentally stupid. But that’s another subject altogether.
We own all our stories, and we have the right to talk about them and name names. I’ll say what I please. And yet.
What is the truth in writing?
What does it mean to tell the truth?
It’s only true in the sense of how the person remembers it. Yes, some things are objectively true. But also, perception is reality. But also, memory is notoriously unreliable. This isn’t to minimize memories; there are things we go through in our lives that we will never forget, no matter how much time passes. However, when we recall something, we’re not remembering when it first occurred; we’re recalling the last time we thought about it.
In the remembering, you may have any combination of the following:
1) This happened.
2) This is a fact.
3) This is what was said.
4) This is how I felt.
Everything up until “this is how I felt” is potentially debatable. The reality is that eyewitness testimony is often inaccurate. This is where things can get deep in the philosophical weeds, and I love a good jaunt to the weeds and rabbit holes, but I’ll spare you and refrain.
What isn’t debatable is what we felt and a piece of writing, poetry in my case, does not need to be 100% true to be impactful or authentic. What matters is that it is emotionally true.
Sharing strips the shame
I believe we strip our secrets, shame, and traumas of their power by sharing them. It doesn’t erase what happened, but it is a means of controlling the narrative and lifting the weight from our shoulders.
One of my former instructors, poet D.A. Powell, said it best off-handedly during a workshop, “We write not to create a burden for ourselves but to alleviate a burden.”
Where is the line between alleviating our burdens and creating them for others? The truth is, I don’t know.
Telling others’ secrets
In telling our stories and owning our truth, we inevitably and inherently tell the stories and secrets of others. In doing so, especially when it’s family, can get messy.
Telling our truth could hurt someone else, even when it is done with care and no malice. People who have harmed us may still be dear to us. It could still hurt.
Poet Louise Gluck said, “The secrets we chose to betray lose power over us.” The use of the word “betray” in this quote is interesting. Betrayal has a strong connotation of disloyalty or some degree of treachery. Culpability.
Are we guilty of betrayal by speaking our truths? Yes, our words can be damning when we discuss our experiences, especially our traumas. However, believing “sacred and secrets are siblings,” poet and essayist Mary Reufel found power in not revealing.
So, do we go the Reufel or the Gluck route to alleviate our burdens?
Perhaps leaving our truth in a tattered, well-loved notebook in a desk drawer might be all we need. We got it all out. Let it be.
But maybe it demands more, refusing to be kept in a drawer–with editor’s notes, sent to a printing press, bound with a glossy cover, a “real” book, followed by readings of our work, our truths, read aloud, especially when it hurts.
Upcoming classes you might enjoy
Nap-a-thon: a fundraiser for people who are tired. Which, statistically, is everyone.
Oct 1-31.
A 4-week writing accountability and co-working group to help you make real, steady progress on your writing.
Wednesdays 3-4:30 pm | In person or online | Next cohort starts Nov 4, facilitated by Daryll Lynne Evans | Age 16+
A quarterly journaling workshop that takes you deeper into your thoughts and feelings through grounding, prompts, and a community that holds space for whatever shows up on the page.
Sundays, Nov 8, Feb 14, May 2, 3-5 pm | In-person and online | Age 16+
Learn more! Writing Into Yourself: A Seasonal Journaling Series
Share your words in sweet community at our monthly open mic emceed by spoken word poet Jorah LaFleur.
Second Thursdays, September through June | Age 14+ | Next open mic: Nov 12
Demystifying the process of bringing your story to the page in this full day craft intensive with Patricia Crisafulli.
Nov 21 | Ages 18+
The Oregon Author Series brings a visiting Oregon writer into our space for an afternoon of live conversation: about their book, their process, and the stubborn, beautiful work of making something true on the page.
Dec 13, 2026; March 14, June 13, 2027 | 4-6 pm
Ages 16+