Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Why I Haven't Been Writing. And Why I Write This Now.

Only she seems to understand, that woman who gave me this life, when I told her I couldn’t write anymore. That the ideas were there, the sentences ran through my mind, in sleep and while awake, while walking, or eating or cooking or during any of the dozen things that makes up a normal, mundane day. The words were there, almost, yet I couldn’t bring myself to sit and write them out. The utter joy in letting these fingers type out things I was thinking, things I didn’t quite know were on my mind, the memory of that joy remained, yet I couldn’t be bothered with the path that would get me there. It wasn’t the lack of inspiration or work or deadlines. There were plenty of those, urgent, immediate, necessary. 

It was a feeling of illogical lethargy, a sense of unexplainable ennui that gripped me by the throat, choking me, feeding me with poisonous questions as to why I needed to get out of bed every morning, feed the dog, do my yoga, function as a human being should. I have been going through the motions, sending in my columns here and there, nearly always late, soulless pieces that seemed like a chore, not the one thing that unfailingly brought me satisfaction and meaning.

I was going through the motions and producing sparse words when required. But I haven’t been writing. And she was the only one who seemed to notice. No one else seemed to notice that the book lies abandoned, only a brief first chapter done, that too many months ago. That the ideas I have hesitantly spoken about never turned into actual stories, these past few months. That the opportunities so enthusiastically shared lie discarded, against best judgement. That it is not the same anymore. That I am distraught, emotionally beaten, heart broken, for no mistake of mine. That this fear of being abandoned has sunk in so deep that there came a point when nothing made any sense anymore, no means seemed to justify any end. That here I am, not caring that I am mixing up my tenses. I kept the smiles pasted on, maybe that is why no one else noticed. It is easy sometimes for the playacting and the realness to blur along the already thin lines.

She noticed though, my mother. And understood when I told her why. She – nearly – always understands why and what and how. And she told me to sit and bloody well get to it, just like that, in her usual matter of fact way, like all mothers employ when needed, adding that she knew it wasn’t easy. But then nothing is easy. You have to dust yourself and get up every time you fall. Again and again and again. It is as simple as that, it is as difficult as that. You realize the strength in you when being strong is the only option you are allowed.

Maybe it will all make sense someday, because you know, it just should. Because, you know, you can't just up and leave, without explanation, without a word. Because friends don't do that to friends. They just don't cause such trauma. Period.

Maybe it will hurt less as the months go by. Maybe. Right now, even three months or so later, it doesn’t make any sense, no matter how much I analyse, wonder, think myself crazy. Right now there aren’t any answers, only pain. But I am letting myself fully, wholly feel. That’s an improvement from the bewilderment, the incomprehension, the complete denial of this.

And now, I write this. Maybe it means I am starting to write again, slowly, taking hesitant, trusting steps. Because I don't know what else to be but a stupid, bumbling, trusting person. I trust people I call friends and can never learn some lessons, stupid me. Maybe this means the light, dim and barely visible as it is, has come back on, at the end of this long black hallway. It flickers wildly, like a fire caught in a storm, but it is there.

I write this now, here. I am able to, barely, but still able to. Here I am, lying bare like I haven't done in so many long months. Maybe this is catharsis.

No comments: