I don’t remember how to write. Over the last year and a half (give or take?) my writing has been limited to addressing of remembering sadness and/or trauma. In fairness, those sentences were put together nicely. I know they received an emotional response from many, as well they should have — emotional stuff was happening. And I am a “good” writer.
Somewhere in my growing up, I got choked up. There’s nothing wrong with writing through the pain; unfortunately pain is all I was writing about. Loss, fear, longing, and disappointment litter my longform, making my writing look like performative wound bandaging. I bleed on the page and tuck my pen away until something else slices me and it’s time to bleed again. Getting those words out feels cleansing, but leaves me feeling spent. It makes writing feel like a chore.
Navigating humanity can be hard work, but there is fun in between. When did I become one of those people uncomfortable with sharing joy in long form, and why? When did joy become such a fleeting thing that I trap it in my mind because I’m not sure when I’ll get more. It’s weird when your life reads like an exposed nerve ending. Maybe not to people who don’t know me, but definitely to me who goes back to the space I was in when I originally wrote something.
In every piece, I see myself creating this large rock that I pick up, put in my backpack, and carry with me everywhere. My failures, my losses, my disappointments, my heartache, all in this growing bag that I carry with me all the time. I don’t want to forget the experience that came with any of those stories, but there is no rule that says yesterday’s pain must shape today.
I gotta put some of that shit down.
In a closet.
In a basement.
I gotta put this shit anywhere that isn’t my back, before I let it crush me.