Surprising Where the Light Shines

Today I was messing around with my other new projects and saw "1 unmoderated comment" under my old Peace Corps blog. Goodness, it's been years since I last posted, the two times I attempted to write after I came home having become lost in the swirl of procrastination, PTSD, and time passing.

Yet when I saw that unmoderated comment and clicked, something revived in me. Compliments will do wonders, especially for a writer's ego, I suppose*. But it's also the timing. Does the date stamp on the comment reflect the day I moderated the comment, or is it the day the person commented? Did this person really read my blog from time to time and for some reason, today of all days, decide to reach out and say, "Hey, I read you and I like it," right when I looked and could see? Or is this an old comment that's languished like so many things on the internet, lost, lonely and left behind until my consciousness ripened to readiness for perception? I find I can't remember if that comment was there the last time I logged in just a few days ago.

Either way, I'm astounded a bit. Just last Thursday I spilled many of my guts to an old friend as we walked our children down a sun-dappled street and I mused, "I've meant to write about that chapter in my life, but I haven't found a way to do it yet." Talking with a new person about these old events felt cleansing in a way. It was cathartic to re-tell to someone who hadn't heard me tell it before.

But talking about it also felt like dredging a swamp: icky and exposed. Even as I spoke, striving for healing objectivity, I became aware that I was actually confessing my scandalousness. In displaying the evidences of what happened to me and what I had done, I felt that creeping ugliness seep upwards, seeking the light, ready to overwhelm the beauty of what I've found in the 29 months since the event that changed my life occurred, and the beauty of my new-found friendship. It felt like an act of sabotage.

Strolling along between the leafy, shaded cool patches and bright hot sidewalks of the city streets, in the back of my mind in one of my quieter, more sensible voices, I wondered why I still felt the need for self-flagellation and self-revenge. For gratuitous self-display. To be Prometheus on the rocks before eagles, guts bared ready for consumption, digestion, and the defecation of gossip and innuendo. Did I discover fire? Hardly. Did I deserve degradation and the chance that my new friend would find me too tasteless for companionship? Perhaps.

Or was I seeking understanding and compassion - in other words, forgiveness - for the self-loathing that still seeps into my sense of being? And now that some anonymous comment has inspired me to write again, will this be my journey to real wellness, to put here, where my friends and family might stumble, my full confession of what happened? Where strangers might pause to consider my tale, to develop opinions about me? Will I truly and honestly display what I think of myself and part of my history for anyone to read and consider? Should I?

What I am rather long-windedly and slightly turgidly trying to say is: Peace Corps was not what I thought it would be. I was not the Peace Corps Volunteer I thought I would be. Shall I confess? Perhaps it is time.

~~~

*Note: The "anonymous" comment is probably spam, since it includes a link to a money-generating website. Since I fell for it and posted it, likely I will see more of these lovely, ego-stroking comments appear. Perhaps this is a case of comic cosmic coincidence. Should I take it as it is and continue my introspection, or should I leave it lie and write in a safer, less public place like my journals? Trouble is, I do like the thrill of writing on the internet, since it seems like there's at least the potential for someone else to read what I've written.