I haven’t written a new blog post in a while so I felt the need to give a little update here. Most of my writing energy has been consumed by NaNoWriMo but a part of it is also that I’ve been really very happy and content with my life lately.
It’s funny, depression/anxiety/etc was a fuel for my writing for so, so long. When I slept in a closet in California “Harry Potter style”, complete with named spiders in my room, I had a spiral bound notebook tucked under my pillow that I wrote in whenever I felt lonely. Funnily enough, this first attempt at a novel shares a similar premise as the story I’m writing now. Some ideas just stick with you.
When I first arrived in Michigan, I used to sit on my sister’s laptop for hours on end and hammer out a story on there. I got easily past 20k words, I remember. Then I broke my leg and sometime after that the story was lost. It was a tragedy I struggled to get over. Those words were the replacement for friends. My isolation however was soon to end as I finally made some friends once I started school.
This very same group of friends then decided to beginning working on a project we called simply “The Book”. I don’t feel like we ever got a great deal of work done. We mostly schemed a lot and created OCs. At one point we thought maybe it should be an animation instead. But we locked ourselves in a meeting room every recess to very seriously discuss this story we wanted to tell. Finally, my love of story telling had found a way to free me from always being alone.
The following year, I struggled so desperately with bullying that I was very angry. I had missed a lot of math in between moving from Illinois to California to Michigan and it was really starting to show. Unable to follow what the teacher was talking about, math class became a time for my feelings to fester – resulting in me dramatically writing in the margins of my math book. Once discovered by my teacher, she called my family in and labelled me “The Next Columbine”. I was forced to cross out pages and pages of words very meticulously, in a blackout fashion that I adapted for a long time after.
My habit became writing down my feelings, then blacking out the words. It evolved after some time to creating words out of the first letter of every word I wanted to write, putting spaces in between sentences. This was unreadable later but ultimately made me feel better without the fear of teachers being able to read it. However, I couldn’t be kept from my word vomit for long. Thinking – very foolishly – that no adult would ever find it, I started my first blog.
I now know how it ended up in her hands but when the counselor called me in to her office, I felt distraught and betrayed. But maybe it was a good thing, I thought secretly. I desperately wanted to be saved. By now, I had started cutting myself and was very unhappy. Counselors are supposed to help you, right? But instead she accused me of lying about everything I wrote and vilified me. I remember breaking down in tears, trying to explain that everything I wrote was true. Maybe she just didn’t want to accept that my horrible retellings of child abuse and neglect could be real – not among the children of such a quaint, calm little town. But they were. And she made me lose even more faith in authority figures. I wonder sometimes how different my life would be right now if the adults in my life that were aware of what was happening would have tried to help me instead of casting me as some evil child and ostracizing me. Who knows. It doesn’t matter either way at this point.
I stopped writing seriously for a long time. I think I dabbled in blogs on and off, but I was highly secretive about them and didn’t write as unfiltered as I used to. I cut myself more. Carved words and names into my flesh. My bedroom walls became lined with song lyrics. I reverted back to journals and to this day I have a box full of diaries from high school and early college. Even now, I have a half-full leather bound journal that witnesses me at my most emotionally unstable or climatic moments. Truth be told though, stories are for telling and as much as the companionship of a good journal can not be replaced, I think I always knew I’d go back to blogging once I was in a place in my life where I couldn’t be penalized for it. I am simply incapable of not writing with the intention of it being read.
My mother is constantly warning me, “Don’t write anything that could get you in trouble.” The sentiment is kind but the message is what kept me bottling up my feelings for so long. Don’t tell anyone what’s happening at home, or child services will come and take you away. Don’t tell anyone how sad or scared you feel, or they’ll push you out the door saying “don’t forget to take this one with you.” Don’t write anything that could get you in trouble, or you’ll get reported to some authority that gives a fuck about women with personality disorders who keep a blog.
I refuse to be silent anymore, though. One day, I woke up and decided, “The world should hear this shit. It’ll make me feel better and maybe it’ll make someone else feel better, too.” So I started up http://eclectic-exocentric.blogspot.com/ – nearly 50 posts later, I felt a new internet home would be appropriate now that my life was changing. So a little after my birthday this past May, I bought this website. And it’s been a ride. I can’t wait to see what the first 50 posts of this thing looks like (which, sidenote, holy fuck I didn’t realize ecletic exocentric had that many posts until I just went and checked. Four years of content, people).
Just comparing the sentiments of my last post on there to where I started here – a definite shift happened. And I think, I THINK, where I’m at right now is pretty indicative of where I’m going to be, mentally, for a while. We’ll see. The latent anxiety voice cries, “This better not be like, you making your peace with life and then you die suddenly and tragically.” Because whenever it’s calm, whenever I’m calm, I get nervous. Life isn’t always a pocket full of sunshine. But right now, I’ve got a love and it’s all mine, ooohhh, whooaaoohhh. And whether or not something stressful or scary or life threatening is around the corner, it’s okay. I’ll take it as it comes. I’ll die when it happens. But in the meantime, I’m not going to create more suffering just by worrying about shit I have no control over or any idea when it will or will not happen. When/if shit hits the fan, you know I’ll be back. Because if I don’t share my stories with other people, that’ll be the real tragedy. In the meantime, life is good. And you, dear reader, are one of the reasons why I love my life ❤