Struggle Porn

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I haven’t been able to write in a minute. My energy overly consumed by my job and projects that barely keep me afloat. I sit in front of the blank page of a notebook or my computer uninspired and empty as I crave for the rush I feel when the right words pop up in my head. 

I think the realisation that I am not the only one reading my Tales and that I have no control over how it gets interpreted really terrified me. I feared that I was viewed like exhibitionist at a bus stop, wiggling my willy to passerby as they look at me in horror.

Although, I have received kind words for the way I am so transparent and honest (those warm my heart), sometimes the feeling of shame and embarrassment takes over and I just want to press delete. When I expressed this to Esa, she monotonously said “I would never let you do that.” And I understood then and there that despite my possible meltdown my writing will be somehow be kept safely and preserved. 

I wondered if writing and sharing my story and thoughts was in some ways violating my own intimacy, turning my secret garden into a piss-smelling neighbourhood park. Was I sacrificing my intimacy for the comfort of others, will that be used against me one day? Is this worth for maybe 5 people reading this to feel heard and seen? 

I have always made it a point that if I were to write something and share it, it had to have somewhat of a lesson or a purpose. I strictly refused to make this some type of public diary. I did not want to write struggle porn. As much as many of my stories obviously involved other people, some of them men I have been involved with, I take anonymity seriously. But even then, I am still so afraid that it is seen as revenge or a way to let my anger out. Sure, there was some cathartic aspects to it, taking back some power and control over what happened or what happened to me but at the end of the day, I never wish harm. I also refuse to write anything I am still extremely affected by, in order to avoid strong emotions clouding my judgments.

When I started Girl on Girl, I actually felt nervous. I thought about how it was going to affect my personal life. I did not even have a single Tale out but the thoughts did come to me. I thought about how difficult it was going to be to share knowing that my family could read about some moments I’d never share with them. Although close, I do not have the type of dynamic where everything can be shared. Single at the time, I wondered if it would force me to be single forever scaring men away, making them believe that I could potentially write about them and reveal all sorts of intimate details. I also thought about the dangers of putting certain details of my past and my past relationships, knowing that many would not be able to handle a bunch of it. 

I wondered if this made me a bad future mother, if I was somehow humiliating my future unborn children talking about my previous bad habits and men that are not their father. How would I deal with their questions if they somehow stumble upon my writing? 

So many concerns and fear of humiliating others and myself. 

But, I understood that I was programmed and made to feel that way. Women are made to feel that way. What does it make me if I listened to it all? 

It would make me the type of woman that prioritised the way men perceived me, creating my own jail with their gaze. It would mean putting a non existent relationship and unborn children in the way of my own purpose, stopping myself from doing what I have always loved. Going against what my family has worked hard for, which is to do what makes me happy. 

I was born in the right place, under the right flag and set of rights as a woman, have the freedom to express myself freely when many in this world aren’t allowed to even show their face. I couldn’t find anything that would stop me from me to take advantage of such a privilege when many others could only dream to have. I can empathise that it’s not necessarily easy to be with someone with their guts spilled out at all times and to read about their past sexual experiences knowing that everyone else can read the same thing. But I have made peace that not everybody can be with someone like me, but I would live a miserable life if I bent myself to fit everyone’s taste. As much, as I would love to be a mother one day and would never want to do anything to harm my children, I think they’ll have to understand that their mother is still her own person and not only their mother, that she has lived. That on top of that, all the mistakes or pain they have felt, she has experienced them too and that they should learn from her or at the very least feel lesser shame than she ever did.  

I never had any pushback from my family, I think none of them have really read anything which I am okay with, making things less complicated and avoiding any uncomfortable discussions. They are just happy to know to that I am doing what I have always wanted to do.

However, as predicted I have had some bumps in the road in my dating life, people practically begging me to not write about them, which I find quite comical because I always wonder what makes them think they are relevant enough for me to write about them. 

On a deeper note, I have almost lost what felt like something that could have been real and the only time I dreaded having decided that this was what I wanted to do, making me wish I had a less complicated hobby like pottery or crochet. With many difficult conversations and enough love from both sides, things worked out and I feel grateful that I was not put in a position to choose one or the other. But I figured that if anything was going to work out I had to be accepted fully, and that the right partner for me would never make me stop writing. 

Then I thought about the different bodies of work created by women that didn’t give a fuck and how they made me feel seen. Lena Dunham, Sylvia Plath, Anais Nin, Belle Burden, Hilma Af Klint… Women that pour themselves out intentionally or unintentionally to make others feel less like weirdo freaks. Reading a part of a book or watching a scene, seeing a painting that instantly lifts the shame of feeling like you are the only one to go through something, or alleviating the pain when you understand that what you are feeling is not singular and just apart of the human experience. Such liberating moments that just makes many feel lighter in a world that can feel so heavy. And I just knew from a young age, that that was what I wanted to do. That even if whatever it is I created did not reach an audience of many, knowing that I made one other person feel the way that these writers and artists made me feel, that would make me the happiest. 

I figured that I could manage to live a life without a partner or children but I couldn’t live a life without writing things that may make others feel better. I have always been a writer before I was ever a wife or a mother, an identity I hold on to dearly and refuse to let go. 

My secret garden may no longer be fully a secret but it may become a community garden where many can enjoy and feel at peace. A place where people can think and benefit from it too. Some corners still remain closed off, not yet open to the public. Perhaps one day, I’ll share them too—once the flowers have bloomed and I feel ready.

Vahine Blaise, Hunter Valley, Australia,

September 2026