I’m stuck.

I have a whole post, one that is already written, down to a word, in my head, one that is pounding against the binding of my brain and demanding to be released. It’s a post that I’ve had written for weeks, months, and that I’ve kept tucked away, unsure about whether or not to publish it. And then, in the past week, discussion began to swirl online about issues related to the thing that I want to talk about – that I want so badly to talk about – and I found myself trailing my fingers across my keyboard, straining against the urge to write and hit post, write and hit post, write and hit post. But I resisted – I am resisting, so far – and so I have been pecking at tweets and making cryptic remarks to nobody in particular because it is bothering me, it is really bothering me, and I want so badly to lay it bare upon the screen and shout, see? See? This is why! This is why! This why you need to look at this differently, this is why these discussions are wrong, this is why I have been sitting here, grimacing and fighting back tears.

Because this matters, to me.

But it’s not a story that is just about me. It’s about someone else, too, someone who isn’t around to ask whether it’s okay to tell this story, this story that involves them. And although I think that it would be okay, that this person would tell me that they’d want me to tell it – I’m pretty certain of this, actually – I worry that deep down they wouldn’t be so sure, that somewhere, deep down, they’d feel some shame. And therein lays the dilemma: the point of the story, of telling the story, is to fight back against the threat of shame and to proclaim, loudly, that there is nothing about which to be ashamed, that it’s all fine, that it’s more than fine, that I’m proud. But decrying shame requires putting shame to light, and here, I hesitate. I hesitate.

But here’s the thing, and here is what is disingenuous about this post: even though I hesitate, I am going to post that story. I am going to release it from the confines of my mind and heart, where it is, truthfully, battering me in its efforts to get out, and what I am doing here is courting opinion, courting support, wringing my hands publicly so that everyone will say, oh, honey, it’s okay, if it’s important, if you know you’d have blessing to write it, if you’re doing it to help, it’s okay, it’s okay, whenever you’re ready, it’ll be okay.

Which I hate. I hate that. I hate doing that. I also hate knowing that some will say, if you have doubts, you shouldn’t; if you have doubts, you should err on the side of caution; if you have doubts, don’t. And: why are you asking for our blessing? Doesn’t that miss the point?

It does. It does.

So I won’t ask. I’m not asking.

I’ll just wait for the story to make its way forward, to burst from its confines and declare itself, and then, then I’ll deal with it. Then we’ll see.

(In the meantime: I have been raging against the Huffington Post, and dreaming about pirates. If you’re into that kind of stuff.)