Does anyone else hate being a writer?
I reluctantly call myself one because frankly, I am a reluctant writer. When I joined Everything2 exactly 1.6 years ago it was because I felt compelled to write, which I suppose is the reason for all of us being here. Lately I've been running away. Afraid. Why?
I return to the screen because something is eating me up inside so badly that it scares me. Whenever this happens, writing is the only thing that helps. Diary entries don't help much. It needs to be written into a story, told as objectively as anyone can tell their subjective experiences. Doing so releases the tension, lets some air puff out of my brain like an over inflated balloon regaining its normal size. The words want to fall out but I don't want to look at them. Does this mean that I'm afraid of my own mind? It was in a dark place for several years. Seeing the damage makes me want to weep. I'm not the type to use the word ''weep," but it seems like the right one to use right now. How could someone who used to be so down to earth fall into a pit of anger and self-hatred? So far down that I'm only now remembering how to be happy?
There's a woman in my life I cannot escape. At work. She is a caricature of herself. Appearing so polite and sweet on the outside, but wears a different face around those she considers friends. The real face is mean. Saying things to me that suggest people don't like me even though they actually do, asking intensely personal questions even though we aren't close, telling me that I'm not enough this or I should do more of that. Telling me that I act strangely or that I am flawed but that she doesn't mind it. Never have I felt so fixated upon by another person. It feels like violation. It feels like digging up a grave and ripping up the bones for inspection.
I fear to write about it. Since climbing out of that pit of darkness I am fearful of people with unstable minds. It feels like they are reaching out, wishing for me to think how they think even though they are totally fucked up and there is no fucking way that I am going down that road again. It's probably a good sign that I am wondering what is wrong with this person. She can't trick me into thinking that I'm not good enough.
The story will be written one way or the other, sooner or later. It is an unborn baby that wants to come out too soon. For now I am focusing on my yoga classes, on finding my spirituality, on bringing joy back into my life with my plants and funny cartoons and friends that I should never take for granted.
It is dark outside, 10:32pm on a Friday night. The cat blinks her amber eyes, sitting on top of the entranceway carpet she has partway rolled up with her paws. Three plastic pots sit on the kitchen window ledge; two have passion fruit seedlings, the other has freshly planted cat grass seeds. On the table beside the computer is a pipe and a small, black glossy cardboard square full of screens. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is on pause, the television behind me, and there is an aftertaste of soup crackers in my mouth. The blinds are closed and the refrigerator hums loudly, the heater making random ticking noises. It's the most beautiful silence that I have heard all week. It is in these moments that the words begin to fall out and I'm not sure if I hate this after all.