writing

Time, Birth and Death

It’s the end of the year and a part of me is truly shocked I made it this far. Frankly, I was shocked I made it to my birthday in July.

I often wonder if I’m just perfect at making horrible decisions or I’m one of those people who are meant to live a certain kind of Life and just figure out a way to get through it.  Is it destiny or a string of Fuck Ups?

The 14th of January 2013 I had a miscarriage.  When you hadn’t even known that you were fertile, no less pregnant and wake up to contractions and blood rushing down your legs, it’s a special kind of trauma. One of those experiences words can’t even begin to describe.

It was a bleak time.

I honestly don’t think I knew the meaning of depression until I went through the next couple of months after it happened.

There were days when I’d wake up and cry because I was still alive. I felt guilty and lonely. As if I’d somehow caused it and even though I knew I hadn’t, I felt like the blame needed to be passed somewhere and I was the only one to carry it.

I didn’t want to write about this.  The thing with sharing experiences with people is that not everyone will respect it.  We live in a society where everything turns into a joke, no matter how traumatic, and one never wants to be on the receiving end of being dismissed.

Friends often ask me if, in a sense, it wasn’t a blessing. If I would have kept the child and really, I don’t know. But I would have liked to have been the one to make the decision.  I felt [possibly still feel] like my body betrayed me.  For months afterwards I’d have panic attacks when my menstrual cycle came around and menstrual cramps would leave me terrified with flashbacks of that morning.

It’s been, by far, the most painful experience of my Life.

I still cry about it.

And I’ve learned that the real pain in certain experiences is that you go through it alone.  You can’t collectively grieve, even with people who understand.

It’s your loss and you have to come to terms with it.  You grieve as long as you want and you do your best to get by.

This is not a “Everything will be fine, just keep going” post.  Sometimes I have no guidance to provide.

What I CAN say is Life’s taught me that Time heals and creates all wounds.

And that’s that.

“…But then she has to be so transparent and so honest, and like, her secrets are completely – they belong to everybody. And it’s caused her problems in her personal life. That’s almost common knowledge.

So I think it’s this thing where you feel – it’s such a cliché, but like such an open book sometimes. It’s a struggle to try to figure out what to keep to yourself and what not to. Because writing, for me, is so important, and I need to do it. It’s a physical need. And so the more difficult a thing is I’m going through, the more I’ll write about it. Sometimes I feel like, “Should I be keeping that to myself, or is that not appropriate?” But then I think, “Fuck it. Whatever.” And write about it anyway, because I need to.

The purpose that it serves is greater than ego or pride or what people may think of you and all the rest of it. I spent a long time trying to make sure that I wasn’t worried about being embarrassed or stigma or people thinking that they know you, because they don’t. The more that you work on your craft, the more that you can find ways to write about the most terrifying things, things that you can’t even really say out loud to yourself, but write in a way that still feels very safe, and everybody takes something different away from it when they read it.” 
– Warsan Shire

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Why We aren’t [don’t] like You

“People..They don’t write anymore- They blog.” – Hank Moody.

I read this and felt ashamed because were Hank Moody a real person, I’d be certain he was passing a remark aimed at me.

“You should write a book”.  People say this to writers all the time as if we flawlessly pull words out of thin air and they miraculously transform themselves into sensible sentences that people can relate to. 

Writing is hard. 

I cannot speak for those who work on fiction but as one who basically pens down her thoughts and experiences, it’s not easy to put everything down. There are secrets and painful truths that you’d rather no one else know. Every time you write,  especially if you blog and it’s for an audience, you give away some part of yourself. You share your pain/truth/opinions with people you don’t know and risk being misunderstood and unappreciated.

Writing means constantly telling on yourself. Constantly exposing your insecurities and fears, your secrets and Demons, and for some reason people who are unable in everyday Life to even state what they TRULY desire feel it’s simple for one to just day in and day out sit down and pull up all their experiences for their consumption. 

For more than two years now I’ve heard those words. 

I’ve tried a couple of times to do so and only managed, at most, 4 or 5 pages. Why? Because frankly, I get scared sometimes. Who gives a damn about my story? Do I even have one? What if I start and realize my Life hasn’t been as eventful as I thought? Do I really have anything to say? What if I go on and on and after a while it becomes some monotonous piece of work? This will mean that I will have to tell the truth about certain people, is that a risk I’m willing to take?

And then I feel bad. Because I don’t know if other writers go through the same issues and have the same thoughts. Some make it seem easy and others will tell the truth about their insecurities. 

I can tell you this though, the majority of us find the label “Writer” quite pretentious. I personally cringe when I say it and yet there’s nothing else that stands as true. I find solace in the fact that I’m not one of the many I know who write merely for the label and nothing else, and then I’m better. 

Writers are not peaceful people. Not the ones that I know anyway. Look at writing as a form of exorcism. This is us removing the things our Spirits can’t handle. Think about that. The energy and emotional toll it takes, and tell me if you could do it every day?

From what I’ve seen, and what I feel personally, compliments reduce us to 4 year olds who feel the need to hide behind skirts, which in this case, is our work.  I don’t like discussing blog posts with people, I may be a narcissist, but I don’t. I don’t give my blog address to anyone, I always say if you find it, you do, and if you don’t, you don’t. The majority of the compliments I get fly over my head but a heartfelt “Thank you for saying what you did as you did” from a stranger brings tears to my eyes. Because I could care less for compliments, I don’t want to write down pretty words, I want people to relate and some to learn. 

I am also not a walking book.  I don’t have words laid out and poems in storage to entertain people. “What do you write about? Tell me some of it” needs to stop. As does “Do you write about me?”. Believe me we live in a society where most people are so bland there’s no need to note their existence and it’s as simple as that. The next man is like the last man and probably the current too. 

Although I mentioned that we aren’t peaceful people, this does not mean that we are out of control.  We aren’t all promiscuous alcoholics with mommy/daddy issues.  We don’t live in dumpsters and homeless shelters “for the experience” and we don’t walk into abusive relationships to be able to write about it.

Writers are not your hipster version of Brilliance. 

Some are special and some aren’t. Some fit the mold and some don’t. And some are extremely boring people in Real Life. It’s that simple.

Why? Because really they’re just people who can arrange words a certain way and make you feel/understand some shit. Nothing more/ nothing less. They’re like other artists, some create timeless pieces and others, they just create. 

Personally, I have enough of a difficult time trying to figure out if I’m a hipster or not. I’d rather not be but if I am, fine.  I feel bad when I think I may be a more of a blogger than a writer and I make myself feel better by reminding myself that I’m only really doing what I can/have to, here, now.  I beat myself up over the fact that I don’t have a manuscript, then remember that maybe now is not the time. I may not have that much to say.  Sometimes I use people to have writing material, and other times Life fucks me over and I have to pick myself up from that the only way I know how, by writing about it. 

It’s not that complex and yet it’s one of those things you’ll have to be in to understand.

Is all. 

 

– A possible Hipster girl with some shit to say, sometimes. Who wants to be Hank Moody when she grows up. Shut up. I know what I said. 

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