I haven’t written any words in close to six months. This lack of creative expression, I think it kills a bit of my soul every day I don’t strike pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard.
I’m realizing as time goes by what a complete addict I am.
Addicted to words, writing and purging and ripping through sinew to the soul and beating heart of what lies within.
I’ve missed my writing life. Seriously.
I miss the quiet contemplation. The sudden jolts of clarity. Moments when words and feelings come crashing out to coalesce and become something worth something.
The most truthful, raw, true person I am – it’s when I write.
After my surgery, my hysterectomy. There were no words.
A new jagged wound to join the others, that I needed to sift through.
What came next was avoidance.
Avoiding dealing. Avoiding writing.
Avoiding creative breath.
Four days after my surgery, I was up and out of bed in extreme amounts of pain taking care of a family situation that required my particular set of ball busting skill.
Here I was freshly sliced open and now empty, hollow. . . . . helping.
After a solid seven plus days of intense emotional and physical movement, I crashed for days. Sick. So nauseated I could have just died.
Why can’t I die already, becomes a real question and for me it’s one that’s been with me for more years than I’d rather count.
Then came a very brief set of days before the next situation.
This one is just. . .weird.
A Bookstore fell into my lap like a ribbon wrapped gift.
And so the next mission of avoidance began. In the midst of this mission of silence and avoidance came yet another road of family pain.
My Aunt found out that she had cancer – the breast variety. And so the paths of avoiding my own trauma, my own life intersected and became bigger than me.
It’s been six months. Six months of silence. Of this building pain that has nowhere to go, building and bubbling like acid until it broke. And when it broke it crashed all over me, burning a path across every inch of me.
I tried to carve this blinding pain out from under my skin last night, luckily I was stopped before a pink line became one of red and copper, but it was close.
It’s brought an escalation into my life. Another thing to be cautious of.
My mental health will always fight to win, fight to drag me into the drowning depths and there is and will always be apart of me that. . .likes it. Loves it. Relishes the moments of dark clarity that comes with the crazy of a twisty brain. That part that loves the darkness, it fights with the other pieces of myself – the pieces that hate drowning and suffocating on pain, the parts that want to fight back, the parts that want peace and joy and love and light.
For me I can’t have light without darkness, or darkness without light. Now I just have a new but familiar urge to deal with.
“She made broken look beautiful and strong look invincible. She walked with the universe on her shoulders and made it look like a pair of wings.” – Ariana Dancu