Relatable

Even if your story speaks to only one person, that’s the very reason it must be told.

Everything we write is relatable.
Not everything is relatable to everyone.
But everything is relatable to someone.

One morning after my first husband had left for work, my neighbor came over asking, “Are you all right?” It was another episode of being tossed against the wall like a rag doll trying to get his fingers off my throat before blacking out and being totally at his mercy. I guess he finally slammed me into their adjoining wall one too many times and they couldn’t ignore it any more. Like a barking dog, or block party without an invite. Annoying, but not their problem. Until it was their problem.

Still, they waited to come check on me, much less intervene.

No, I told her.
I’m not all right.
You heard all that?
And did nothing?
Are you here now just to see if I’m dead or alive?
Get out.

But that was the moment I realized no one was going to save me. And my dark secret wasn’t a secret anymore so what difference did it make? I could die in that apartment and nobody would know until the day I didn’t answer the door. It was up to me to pick up what I could carry, take my son’s hand and call a cab. I’d worry about how to pay for it once I got where I was going — wherever that was — or until the driver put my penniless ass out on a curb.

Hindsight really is 20/20. My neighbor did me a favor. She gave me the anger and strength to fend for myself and go.

I see so much of myself in the brave women — and men, abuse has gender blindness — who take up the armor of Substack to write their own stories. When I first came here, decades beyond the dysfunctions, neglects, abuses, and general disappointments of life in the rear view mirror, I had no idea what I would write. I still don’t. I have no strategy, no reader avatar, no lofty vision for my great literary contribution to the world. All I have are stories.

Like so many people here, I don’t remember a time as far back into childhood that the brain allows when I wasn’t writing something. Volumes and volumes. Notebooks and binders. None of it exists today. That’s another painful story I’ll find the courage to write one day. Maybe someday soon.

The algorithm is a magnet. Find one story that speaks to you, applaud bravery from the shadows and suddenly the great summoning takes place. Similar stories appear. More voices finding strength to speak out, to share their darkest moments, turned to greatest victories. Or sometimes not. The victory isn’t quite in sight, but each whimper cast to digital paper brings them one decibel closer to the windstorm their voice can become.

Healing one keystroke at a time.

Too many times, we avoid telling a story because we tell ourselves it’s not comparable. No one will get it. Why bother?

Comparable is not the same thing as relatable. Comparable says one person’s experience is lesser or greater than another’s. It fails to connect. It makes us hold our tongues, keep our stories inside. Comparable says, “We are not the same. How can we understand one another’s experience?” Relatable says, “I feel what you have felt, even though our experiences are not identical. I understand. I get it.”

Everything we write is relatable.
Not everything is relatable to everyone.
But everything is relatable to someone.

It is the relatable that gives us the strength to tell our stories. For everyone that loans us a tiny piece of their strength, we write to be relatable to the next person. We pass that little piece of strength on and on, like a favorite book loaned to a friend. We never expected to get it back. It had travels to make, a job to do.

We are inspired by others, whether by the light of their joy or the darkness of their pain. We feed on it. We ingest it until we let it go, vomiting our gluttony like rancid meat.

At last, our story spills out.

I would never say that to diminish any writer. Never. The incident that opened this article is something I’ve held onto for what seems like forever, wordless memories in private. It was the little doses of borrowed strength that turned it into words in public. There are so many other moments, not necessarily of that time and person, that could eventually become relatable for someone else. Of course, not all moments are bad. That’s partly the beauty of it. Some moments are downright glorious. Each is a story waiting to be told.

If, by chance, any of this is relatable, let me say there are many more good moments than bad. I’ve made it to my 60’s. My second husband was an incredible man, but then I was his widow. My current husband is another wonderful man. Good partners — good people — are out there. If anything, I want to assure you that you are stronger than you think and that you will pass through this hell and be amazed with yourself. I say all that just to assure it’s not platitudes.

When you’re ready, you’ll write your own stories. You’ll think no one is listening, but you’ll be wrong. Someone will understand. They will get it. They’ll see your strength, borrow from it, and that little bit of strength will keep passing on. They’re waiting for you.

Because you are relatable.