Writing has become My Poison; I take it daily
I stared at my laptop, crying again for the third time today. “Write,” I tell myself, “Please, for the love of God, write!”
Nothing happens.
And somewhere far above from where my body lay trembling, I look down at my silhouette and frown.
It’s the fear that gets me; it seizes my throat and takes hold of my fingers. My mind dives, and then no matter how much I beg and plead, I have nothing to offer but silence.
It’s maddening. I can hear the voices laughing; maybe this is what insanity feels like on a weekday. The same sad exercises to meet deadlines and craft innovative lines. All marching to the beat of melancholy and doom.
I have always wondered whether it was the fear of failure or success that stopped me from writing as much as possible. If I am honest, it’s a little bit of both. I would hate to disappoint those around me, but the anxiety that comes with actually meeting their expectations is worse. And yet, I keep writing. I am pulled towards the beauty of words and their power to connect us together.
An Addiction
I would call it an addiction because the symptoms are evident. It consumes my mind; I go to bed thinking about writing. I wake up starved for new ideas. I wrack my brain is strange laying positions on the bed, couch, and floor just for a moment of clarity.
I follow my superstitions and only write with a special pen for the week. I change my diet, redo my hair, wash the dishes, fold the clothes until my idea comes to me like a thief in the night.
Yet, that is when I crumble; my life, for a brief moment, had gotten back to a time before I was captivated by words. My heart hammers in my chest, and breathing becomes a thing of the past. It’s torture. My mouth dries up like wells in a desert, and my vision blurs.
I panic. Not because the words are beautiful, but because they are mine to use. It’s maddening.
“I love it.”
I am so drawn to the paradox of what I feel vs. what I can accomplish that it pushes me on to try once more. Like an addict, I promise to quit and come clean, but I know that I feel alive with my words. I love it. Writing is by far the best medicine for my depression and anxiety; it fuels my soul.
Writing has become my poison. I take it daily, like a good girl still eager to please her parents. I hate it.
