I've actually started writing fiction again, after a decade, and this time it's real. I'm writing a fictitious story with fictitious characters, but it's more real and honest than anything I've ever written, including purely factual essays. And it's scary. And I don't know what will happen, but if I just let it happen, without interfering, it does. And it makes so much symbolic sense that it's eery.
For instance, one character (my false self, I think) hides another, (my inner child, I think) behind her bookcase from a persecutor who's trying to kill him. And the moment that occurred to me as the only possible course of action, I realized that this is exactly what I did. I hid my traumatized inner child and my truth and the real me behind my books. I wasn't allowed to think my father and my family were anything less than perfect. But I was allowed to read Orwell and feel rebellious against Big Brother. I was allowed to read Kafka and relate so perfectly to the feeling of being persecuted by an evil system designed to crush, denigrate, and annihilate. I was allowed to read about the Gnostics and despise the evil Demiurge who imprisoned souls in his world and demanded to be worshiped by them.
Writing fiction brings even more things to light than factual blogging! It's incredibly therapeutic.
The next thing that will happen in my story is an open confrontation with the persecutor. This scares me, because it feels potentially prophetic. Will it end in a general carnage, like a Shakespearean tragedy? I hope not. I hope 'my' characters can emerge relatively unharmed. One can hope.