Say Something, I’m Giving Up on You.

Here it is. Blank page. The place I once found my greatest comfort. Also, a place I avoided successfully for hours that turned into days that turned into weeks that resulted in years. The question of why such avoidance happens rattles in my head all the time. And I come up with so many explanations. These depend on my state of mind. It can go from blaming myself — laziness — to blaming my parents — dysfunctional home — to blaming the world — never got the breaks. Those are in the realm of self-pity. If feeling generous, however, it is explained by a missed diagnosis of ADHD and a lack of executive functioning skills. I might also tell myself that I chose to avoid writing because instead I was focusing on raising my daughter (who is now 18).

I mean I did write. Sort of. I wrote in countless private journals, but then would go through a bout of “determination” to reinvent myself after reading them and judging them to be drivel that went over and over the same themes. The result was my journals went into a box that was then thrown into a dumpster. I wrote poems. I wrote prayers. All this writing was safe though, and it was hidden. Writing as a shared process was, is, just terrifying. The question, again, is why? Why have I not shared my story? An anecdote. Memory. Something. Again, terrifying. Thing is, I believe so much is stored away, and not in those long-gone journals, but in some depths of myself. Dare I say, repressed memories? I have always referred to my past, at least in my journals, as fractured. Fragments of memories. Puzzling, truly. Pieces that I just don’t know how to put together. The only way to do that is to begin though. That is why I am here. Just to say, I really want to write. I really want to share who I am and where I have been and what I have seen. I want people to hear from me. See me. I want to speak outside of the four walls I have always known. Shit, to speak beyond the confines of a silent mind and heart. It is not even that I want to do this but need to. My body is telling me. The raised blood pressure, stomach pains, and insomnia are loud. Mostly, it is the feeling that any new pill my doctor might prescribe would not be the same as putting my fingers on these keys and going for a stroll down memory lane.

It seems so improbable that one can be afraid of their own self. I kind of am though. The issue is trust. I have none. Even for myself and these fragments of memory. What I have are the foggy bits I remember, the words of family members, and images from dreams. That is where I intend to start. Finally ignoring the fear and stumbling onto the page.

Billie, you said that one day I would write a beautiful poem about my brother’s death. Maybe, just maybe, I will do that.

Tomorrow.