I couldn’t write. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. You wanna know why? Yeah me too. So many whys. It’s just us, though, right? Let me share some of them with you. What I don’t write about, haven’t written about much is Shame. Shame is holding me back. Deserved or undeserved shame is weighing me down. Fat, slouchy shame and his pointy sister, jealousy.
I haven’t been able to really write for years. I write best about pain, anger and suffering. I’m not an angry person, but I need to process my anger externally and that seems to beget some sort of connection with people when I write. It all started years ago when I had a seriously interesting experience in a foreign country and couldn’t tell the tale without sacrificing some people at the altar of disclosure. I didn’t do it. Thus began a downward spiral of stagnation and loss.
First, I haven’t written about my most intimate struggles because they’ve been with people I love, and don’t want to trash publicly. People I’ve lost in that ambiguous way we lose people sometimes, nay, most of the times we lose people, I’d venture to say it’s an ambiguous loss. Ambiguous loss is the allergy of losses. Very few people really understand how miserable you are, because you don’t have a real disease. But god dammit, allergies suck as much as a cold. More, maybe, because people who don’t have them are much less sympathetic.
Some people I lost weren’t mine to begin with. Some aren’t really for sure lost. Some are both. Some have self destructed before me in ways most people don’t see, but I see. Some have avoided me because they know I recognize self destruction and they don’t want to burden me. It has hurt my heart and my soul to be able to be so fond of people. I don’t know how else to be, but I don’t know how to talk about it. It’s cumbersome to carry such things inside you.
Secondly I haven’t written because some of what I feel the urge to write about is of an intimate AND graphic nature and one of the things that hurts my feelings most of all is to hear “TMI, lisa”. I overshare, I know. I don’t have a mode that’s moderate. When I stopped being able to share candidly, I couldn’t share at all. Maybe this could be averted by posting a warning, like a skull and crossbones, or a vagina (!) at the beginning of some postings. People could opt out. Or better yet, they could pretend like they opted out and read with guilty and perverse fascination… I see promise in this.
Thirdly, my writing energy has been subsumed by graduate school writing which, for the most part is unchallenging, unrewarding and unworthy of public consumption. I’m almost done with graduate school for now, so that will take care of itself.
Fourth, I really need to write about my family, but haven’t figured out how to do that without alienating them. I’m so jealous of those talented assholes who can tell their real, unvarnished, brutally honest, but clearly (to me, but not their families) fond stories of family melodrama. I have some important shit to say. God dammit, what if I can never say it because I’m too fucking decent? That’s some bullshit right there.
Fifth, I’m ashamed that I’m not the best writer. I’m jealous of people with discipline or talent, or god forbid, both. I hate them. They’ve paralyzed me instead of inspiring me. I’m ashamed of that. Oh Jesus, ashamed of my jealousy! Can it get any more circular?
Lastly, and just FYI: I’ve been depressed for a couple months. I’m not prone to depression, generally. It’s terribly uncomfortable, oppressive and full of suck. Nobody wants to read about how sad you are, really. Even therapists have to get paid to do it. Depressives, you have my sympathies. I hope to be able to help you all once I finish my fantastically inspiring and worthwhile graduate program in counseling psychology.
I’m trying to come back to writing, if anybody cares. It’s been a hard couple years and I tried to process them inside my head without much success. I know this, right here, is crap. But I have to wade through the crap, I think.