I am only hurting myself. I know this.
Still. There is tension in my chest.
It feels so daunting. Doing this again.
I feel as though I have regressed.
That I could turn a phrase without resorting
to some old cliche.
The only solution to this problem is to write.
I’d like to say that I don’t know the subject.
The problem is that I know it all too well.
That and I cannot think of a good way
to end this post.
To hell with it.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Set It To Rights.”
I’ve been lurking a bit on The Daily Post for writing prompts to help with le block. I really liked the topic for today, which is the idea that if you were guaranteed to not fail at one thing what would it be?
In terms of writing I cannot imagine not failing. There is a necessity and beauty to failure. Necessity in that you can only know truly know success after failure. The beauty in it is that moment where choice comes into play; you either give up or you don’t.
I have no illusions about the kind of writer I’ll be. If I’m lucky I’ll get published. If not, I still get to do something really fucking cool. I can put my own stuff out. I can be more involved with the local artsy community. The reality is that so long as I keep writing I can’t fail. Simple and to the point.
In therapy I talked a lot about the fear of failure. That was a big one for me. That somehow if I didn’t heal in the right way that I had failed to transition from victim to survivor. I have never seen myself a victim. Who would want to?
On the other hand I don’t feel like a survivor. Stuck in limbo more like. Somewhere in the abyss fumbling around searching for a source of light. A door to open. A path to walk down.
Deep down I knew that I wasn’t writing, because I can’t really write about that night. It’s the perfect Catch-22. In order to write again I have to write, in some way, about the trauma. About how it and he changed things for me. But, I can’t bring myself to write anything at all, because of the block brought on by the trauma.
Obviously, I’m still figuring things out. Right now it feels more important to work up the courage to write about it. A fictionalized version, of course. It has taken me a long time to even get this far. I had to fail a lot to get here. It’s important to fail. Failing forces you to pick and choose your battles. Right now. This is mine.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Too Big To Fail.”
Sweat runs down my face as I choke on my breath. It is gaining on me. I look over my shoulder, but see nothing. Still, I know it is there. It never leaves. Breath for breath. Step for step. It is never far. Heart pounding. Knees aching. Still, I push.
In the distance I can see three rectangular shapes. As I bring myself closer the shapes turn into doors. Each the same beige color. Light escaping through the cracks. I look back. A wall appears. Suddenly I am in a room. A brightly lit white room with three exits before me.
I walk to the door to the left and put my ear to it. No matter how I strain. I hear nothing. I repeat this to the other doors. Same result. I sit cross legged in front of the middle door. I wait. Thinking something will come through to help me.
Time passes. I have no idea how long. Deep breath. I stand and walk to the door to the right. Right hand on the handle, I knock with my left. Silence. I turn the knob. I peak through the door.
There you are. Hunched over your desk. Working on your art. I watch you for a moment. Never have I been so sure. Never have I loved. Until you. I call out your name, but you do not answer. I walk to you. My body hits a glass barrier. I can’t get to you. I scream your name.
Nothing. I beat upon the barrier, but it won’t break. You are right there. So close. I have come so far. I do not want to lose you now. I go still. It has come back. I turn around. There is no door. Back pressed against the glass. It is looking right at me.
It lunges at me and I barely move in time. I turn just long enough for it to knock me down. We wrestle. A blur of activity. We tumble round and round. I grow tired. It will not relent. It does not seem to lose strength. I cannot keep fighting.
Desperate. I call out your name. I look back to your desk, but you are gone. You abandoned me. How could I have been so wrong? In all my life I never thought I could be so close to someone. Understand them so completely on such a profound level. I can feel myself giving up. I look to it ready to give in. Before I do I take one last dramatic look back.
You are standing at the glass. Watching me fight. You give me the faintest smile. A nod of encouragement. My chest swells and in the next moment I put my arm through it’s center. It roars in pain. It fights back. I keep on it. Determined to win I pull myself together.
I do not look back to you until it is over. I know you are there. Cheering me on. I would think I could fight this thing forever. Writhing in pain it barely puts up much more of a fight. So I do for it what it would not do for me.
The coup de grace. I stand over it for a time. Not sure how to feel. What to think. I turn back to you. Beaming. You have never looked more wonderful to me. Impossible as it may seem. I walk over to you. Desperate to take you in my arms.
But the wall. The glass remains. I look around for something to smash it with. Nothing. I try to point out the things you could use to break it. But you just stand there. Your smile fades. You walk back to your desk. And resume working on your art.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Just a Dream.”
We all know what it is. The long slow death of a writer. Depression for writers. Killing you from the inside. Hindering you from doing the very thing that gives you purpose. Over the years I’ve read a lot about it. Camps that would argue for or against it’s existence. I’m not here to take either side. I desire to write again. Fully and freely. I don’t care what it is. I just want to destroy it.
Needless to say there is something that has prevented me from doing the one thing that makes sense to me. Storytelling. I can’t seem to get more than a few thousand words deep before my brain shuts down. I lose all concentration. My focus is gone. It hasn’t been the same since that night.
The last (and final) time I spoke to my therapist he told me to write, in detail, about that night. I refused. With every fiber of my being, I refused. I told him that the man responsible had taken so much from me that I would not give him this last and most sacred part of me. I would never write about him. Not like that.
My therapist thought he struck gold. Finally seeing a relation to this man and my writing or lack thereof. However, it was no secret to me that there is an obvious connection to my inability to complete a story due to a desire I have to protect this last part of me. I think for many writers we work out the issues we have in life on paper. To not write about it goes against the grain.
I can no longer trust my therapist. I can only trust this. Writing. It is all I have. I have written about that night and kept it for myself. I write now to dismantle the hurdle in front of me. I do so publicly (albeit anon), because it feels less like mine. To keep it in a notebook buried in the closet will keep it mine. To blog about it and throw it back into the world makes it ours. Not all writers can relate to my reason for blocking, but we have all experienced it. In a way. Talking about it like this helps me feel better. Less anxious. More motivated.
My only desire is to get back to writing actively and with purpose. There is no ultimate goal with this blog. If you are looking for answers, well I’m afraid I have none to give. If you find this helpful for whatever reason, then that’s wonderful.