A Struggle Post

At the moment, loss flows like a river off a cliff inside me when I write and it’s hard to expose. Should I keep the wound covered or let this air hit? I don’t have an answer. For a few weeks, I experienced happiness writing again. I didn’t care about being prolific or structure, I was simply myself in words. I wanted to be myself in words. I wanted to wear my words around town. I wore somebody else’s too. It was luxury. Then the encouragement waned and subsequently totally stopped. And there I was standing alone with an old pain I didn’t even know I had. It’s true that when people take distance, they do themselves and you a favor. Some things you just have to face, at least at first, on your own.

There’s a pressure lingering in my chest. Piercing through the gentle touch of vision-to-page connection is that oh so sharp memory of verbal and intellectual abuse from my former artistic/writing partner. It took me until today to realize that the trauma around this experience is still fresh and active. When the driving inspiration behind my progress back into writing lessened, that old monster began to whisper up some value narratives. And when that inspiration stopped altogether, he was waiting for me.

My former writing partner loved to eat. He wouldn’t stop. He gave his unbound consumption his mother’s name he loved to consume so much. He always told me I was talented. He always told me he supported me. He always told me to create. Create I did, create I did. And when I turned my back, he ate the hearts of my creations. Fingers slick with blood, he typed his mediocre novel. Viscera caked at the corners of his mouth, he said “Where’s your work?” I couldn’t hear my oeuvre scream. I didn’t know I was drowning out the wailing of my writing until my screaming stopped. One year later this July and the echoes are still bouncing off the walls inside me.

All the lies I’ve swallowed about my words written are coming up. Passing over my lips like flesh chunks slipping from the mouth of a backbiting gossip monger. When a demon says “You should write” and the earth says “You should write,” how do I sense the difference between submission and substrate? When a demon has a quiet rage and the earth has a quiet rage, how do I know neglect from natural occurrence? Wounds hurt when they happen. Wounds hurt when they heal. The pain in either case can’t be avoided but it also can’t be the focus. I just have to keep tapping my fingers and putting pen to page until I’m certain I know the difference.