Thursday, December 3, 2009

Writers Block

Lately I find that I am thinking of things about myself and my childhood that I'd rather not recall. On one hand I hear myself say that it's okay to remember, to process, to share. My other inner voice says something much different: 'these are private matters'. Yes, these are the mothballs carefully placed deep in the back of the linen closet with the unused wool blankets, wildly out of date and potentially dangerous should they be handled incorrectly or by the wrong person.

I see the images and begin to craft sentences - as I drive, in the sweet space between the light and the dark of sleep, while people watching. But when I sit with purpose at the computer and begin to write my body becomes rigid. My mind flits from memory to memory with no pause, nothing but a cursory review. The sights, smells, feelings don't appear as words. The sentences aren't there any more. They melt into one incoherent, confusing, jumbled mess. The memories have been buried, tamped down, covered with something almost impermeable - as quickly as they reveal themselves, a switch is turned on to make it all disappear. What is it? What is it? Fear that in reliving it I will become That Child again; helpless, hurt, trapped and angry, with no real sense of self, ripe for a beating of one kind or another...? Fear that you will see me as a grown woman who is helpless, trapped and angry, with no real sense of self. That I will believe - again - that I am helpless to stop a beating of one kind or another?

When did we learn to craft our thoughts as complete sentences - those of us born in the late 60's & early 70's? Seven, 8, 9? Whenever that was, I also realized that pencil to paper would be a good way to process productively all of the things that I had no other outlet for. So, I took all the rage that was inside of me and put it on paper. When I was emotionally spent and able to move on, I put it away. Safely in the top drawer of my desk.

Soon thereafter, my truth was exposed by my mother who had previously dismissed as unimportant, irrelevant, unworthy of discussion, any of my thoughts and feelings on her transgressions against me. She went rifling through my drawers while I was away at school and read my journal - my feelings disregarded yet again - because it was her right as the parent to do so. Upon reading my journal, my rage became hers tenfold - 'you hate me? I'm mean? You wish I was dead?' - my body was instantaneously and for some time that afternoon, the target of her anger.

My real feelings were not to live in perpetuity in her house unless I was willing to risk a beating. And yet, here I am - 40 years old - still afraid of the 'beating' that writing private matters for anyone to read may bring me. I try to remember, whenever I feel my body tightening as I begin to explore or make my experience real to other people through writing, that these are MY private matters, memories, truths. That I am That Child - no different now than I was then: strong, independent, unique and willful. Willing and able to dig deep, push past my comfort zone, to explore and experience deeply so that I can share and gain something ultimately important. Me.

2 comments:

Paula said...

It is exquisitely difficult to stay in those moments that you wish had never happened. By slowing it down, and remembering everything that comes, every concrete detail of just the one moment in time, you can go back safely. You can hold your own hand and see it.

In a post you wrote about being invisible. Oh how I relate. When you were an invisible child, you were still wonderful you, wonelle. You were coping, surviving. Now you are flourishing and able to step back into that moment and observe it, be there, so it doesn't hold you down anymore.

Am I getting it wrong? Is it OK to respond like this? Does it feel ok? I know the comments can be good, but they can be annoying sometimes. Let me know.

Cori said...

I like Paula's comments.

I also liked the way this post, "writer's block" flowed. I think you have a great "voice" already. :)