At least you can’t take my words from me. Hamper my self-publication and posting efforts for a year or two? Sure. But nobody can stop me from writing, even when everything else is gone.
As I have recently discovered, after having painful walls erected around my very existence with the sole purpose of slowly closing in and suffocating the life out of me; my material has changed some as a result of being in an abusive relationship, but despite being a specific target on my ex’s hit list the writer in me lives on.
This is my first public post in a long time, and it feels a bit like stepping out to find the sun shining and birds singing after a nuclear winter. Like anyone else who’s ever been trapped by the designs of a monster in human form, I’m sure I could go on and on about the quantifiable atrocities of my experience. Yet in the aftermath I’m finding that it was the war against my passion for putting words on paper which was the most personal for me.
Some of my earliest memories are of picking up a pen and using the words I had to form stories or simply let my emotions flow out in a sort of catharsis. In my adulthood I have boxes of journals and notebooks full of the same, coupled with semi-anonymous blogs, and isn’t it nice that Amazon will let you publish longer works under any name you like? Yes I’ve also always been fairly private about this aspect of myself.
When the attack started it was not subtle, but rather on all out effort to extinguish my compulsion to write. At first it was an essay I insisted I didn’t want anyone to read, torn apart as sub-par garbage over my shoulder as I worked. My journals, individually located, read, mocked, the information within used against me. This blog…..
Since I do tend to keep most of my writing as a very close held, emotional, and private “hobby” (or whatever I should call it) I quickly came to realize that these particular attacks hit me on a different level than anything else. This was one part of myself that I knew I could not lose, that I had to find a way to protect, and so I hid it. I stopped putting words on paper for the most part.
I still can’t say as I ever stopped writing really, even when it became to painful and too dangerous to do so. The stories continued, the blogs, the poems, the ideas never stopped flowing. My mind filled up, I just haven’t put as many of them on paper yet. I was worried for a time that maybe I couldn’t, the inspiration was there but the words would not flow. Now the words come to me, but the tone is different, the style is different, I suppose I’m a little different.
However, I’m starting to think that maybe different is going to be okay after all. I’m still free.