When I started blogging, I was only a college student who thought life was so full of shit (although I still think it is) that I blogged about how shitty and unfair life can get after stepping on a bubble gum with your brand new shoes. Half of the time I was ranting. And half of it, I was trying to make myself look good. My voice was soft, quiet, and dampened back then. I wasn't comfortable being myself. So I wrote only of the things I wanted the people to read because I was ashamed and afraid. I was afraid of rejection. I was afraid that people I don't even know would hate me. I was afraid that they may see me less of a person by my choice of words. I was careful with anything I wrote that hitting the publish button was a challenge.
Years passed and life became shittier than it was. It became so murky that I couldn't help but type my words to let the fog out and have some sense of clarity. It was hard for me to open up. Questions began to surface when I started showing the profound and "less edited" version of me. Questions that begin with what if. It's pretty amazing how the simple and innocent words What and If - which are perfectly harmless on their own - can become really catastrophic when combined. It's like a bomb that when dropped would make me go back scampering inside my shell. What if people will judge me for this? What if they'll think I'm like this or that? What if it's not good enough? It was a war between me and my inhibitions. A struggle to survive the pangs of truth.