A writer

At what point does one realize that they are a writer? 

Over this past week, as I have been more actively posting, this question has been turning over in my mind. I write. It's always been something I do, something I've loved, even something I've been addicted to. But where in lies the separation between writing, and being a writer?

On one of my pages today, my dear sister-in-law posted an Anais Nin quote: "The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say".  She said it made her think of me. 


"Other people think of me as a writer?" I wondered to myself. Insert here every negative thing you could ever think to yourself about why they shouldn't and "why you are not a writer" -- both from myself, and even from others I know.  

All day long at work, all I could think about was what I would write tonight. Throughout the day, little things inspired me, prompted me ... but I also felt an obligation to attempt to get the story of the journey to the current time. I would push away the more creative impulses and focus instead on what to say in the planned post. 

Even as I got home tonight, I'd step into a room, something would capture my eye or spark in my mind, and I  would think "Oh! I should write about that!" But by the time I got to the computer itself, the other story needed another chapter. I felt emotionless and kind of disconnected and unfocused as I composed it, just praying that somehow the words would skip their way into that pretty little city called "Touching". Yeah, I read it once I finished, and I think it made it about 1/4 of the way to "Touching" and then pooped out. 

There are days when you live something so intensely, so continuously, that actually having to think about what its like to be in that moment can be completely exhausting. You live trying to be outside of it so that it doesn't consume you, and then you write, trying to tell the world the story of your heart and your body, and you separate from it, just so you don't collapse. And suddenly, the story is empty and has instead become a narrative, a boring documentary instead of a lively commentary. 

I think the hardest part for me is trying to relay the "way that it happened" ... when all I can really think about at the moment is about how upset I still am that I cried yesterday during an ultrasound (seriously??? who does that??) because it hurt so bad, and about how hard I tried not to scream during the biopsy. I'm not used to feeling or expressing weakness in front of many - it is something that only the rare few that I trust get to see, and here I was, not only crying, but crying in full nekkid glory. Sigh. 

I started writing again to release my story and here I can't stand to write it. 

A writer reaches people with the words that they paint, the worlds they build and the characters that they make into reality. The pulse of their language drives into hearts, souls, and minds -- and creates change. They touch many and capture their readers to the point of hunger for the next words. This is the goal and dream of most writers, and few ever achieve it. 

My goal, instead, is to express myself. To pour everything onto this blank screen and feel every moment. To never write something that my heart isn't in, and to stay true to my muses and inspiration, no matter what form they take in that day. To me, some days I may be a writer, and other days I may be just someone who writes. 

Journey, pt. 2

Note: In continuation. I will try to get as far as I can. Again, this might be disjointed and a little messy. Please comment if you have any questions. You can find post 1 here.


There really was more to that night than just "opening up". Here I was, sitting in the car with one of the most important people in my life and I was bawling my eyes out. Breaths were more like desperate ragged gasps for air between random tangents related only to the fleeting feelings of that moment, nothing connected, and everything grasping.


All that kept surfacing again and again was how alone I was, and my fear that this could be the last ... everything. That the last time I loved and was loved, could be the last. I felt as though I was locked into a horrible dream where karma was the evil judge, and every past sin was laid before me and shouting "this is why"! I was a mess, and even after he left, I sat in the parking lot at work and cried. 


Once I felt my tears had dried enough, I began my drive home, and my phone calls. It was time to let everyone know. I had crossed the line now from my secret to my battle. 


***


I made conscious decisions based on many factors on who to call and when. I saved those who would be most fragile or had enough other things going on themselves for last.  My grandparents, brother, and best friend were all at the end of the list ...  I hated to think of causing them worry or raining on the joy and happiness in their own lives. To me, it really wasn't as important to create a support circle as it was to protect them. 


There were surprises among the calls, people who were full of information, people who had a million questions, people who were uncharacteristically supportive ... and a few others who had no idea what to say, and haven't tried since. I quickly became tired of the words "I'm sorry" ... as they felt almost like a cop-out, something to say when you don't want to say what you're really thinking. I also didn't want pity, I just wanted them to know.  Even from the beginning, it was never about how bad I could feel about what was happening, but what could I do to change it. 


The doctors and I began talking about what to do, how to fight, what tactics and measures to use. Surgery was always a given, but as I am a single mom, the timing was dependent on when I could actually afford to take time off of work, and still maintain our already fragile financial life. Thankfully, my employer is family-centric, and there is a paid vacation scheduled around the Thanksgiving holiday that would allow me enough time to heal without a huge impact on our checkbook. It was 9 weeks away when we scheduled. The question now was, what would we do between now and then?


Now keep in mind, I don't have insurance. I have no idea how I can pay for my medication, treatments, the surgery, and still keep our little family afloat. Thankfully, when I was discussing all of the options and choices with my cousin, she was wise enough to tell me that health can't wait, but medical bills can. 


I started to research. I heard this over and over again from friends and loved ones as I talked to them about what I would do. Clinical trials, hormone therapies, chemo ... so many foreign words to learn and things to make decisions about. I am usually a very decisive person, and I could not make up my mind. My process was more one of elimination based on comfort level than one based on actual facts, at least at first. This meant clinical trials were a no-go, and, well, chemo wasn't exactly ranking high either. Sure, its track record was amazing, but there was just something about losing my hair that sent me into a collapsed mess of tears every time. I opted for hormone-suppressants. 


At first, I was comfortable with my choice. I had already been having hot flashes, mood swings and night sweats. Only - those all now got worse, along with a couple of other side effects I hadn't bargained for.  About as fast as I started it, I decided I had made the wrong decision ... but of course, I had to wait to talk to the doctor.


***


... again, to be continued. Sorry!

The beginning of a Journey (pt. 1)

Note: This might be disjointed and a little messy. It's all fairly fresh and yet jumbled even in my mind. Please comment if you have any questions. 

A few weeks ago I started a new journey. I guess, to be more correct, I started on the journey several months ago, I've just become skilled at ignoring my body and warning signs. And putting off doctor appointments.

Anyways, I digress. Early in September of this year I finally went to the doctor. Something was wrong, and not just the "I think I'm getting sick" kind of wrong, more like a "wow, there is something serious going on here" kind of wrong. If you know me though, I talked myself out of every possible scenario and had convinced myself it was nothing. Even joked that maybe I was pregnant.

Of course, as of January 2007, that would be impossible.

I went in, they drew blood, they did tests, they cut pieces, they scheduled more tests. They did exams, asked questions, looked at history. After the first few rounds of tests that were followed by letters and phone calls of "Everything looks normal for x and x and x" was when I started to realize that something actually was seriously wrong. And there were a few tests that I still hadn't heard the results on.

A little history: Years ago, it seems like lifetimes now, although it was not really quite that long, I had tests and procedures and such. I took hormones, and pills and had things removed and frozen. I had always just assumed that if the "Big C" ever came to get me, it would get me in the same place. It's fairly common, and I expected it.

After I had my youngest, I did the routine post delivery check up. Things looked fine, in fact, more normal than they ever had, so I felt confident. Headaches that started shortly thereafter, the night sweats, the hot flashes, things late or missing - well, maybe it was normal. I didn't really know anyone who had had a tubal before, how was I to know what I could expect?

Things changed over time though, got more intense. I never scheduled another yearly appointment again, even in spite of all of this. Instead, I'd text my best friend if things weirded me out. "Whats this mean?" became the opener of many conversations.

And again, I have found the little path that leads away from my point. Eventually, after much prodding and cajoling and hard hitting attempts to convince me, I ended up at the doctor that September afternoon. Then, it was time to wait.

***

A couple of weeks passed. If you've ever had a test done and you had to wait for the results, you know what it feels like. You jump a little everytime the phone rings, you count down the days til they expected to have them back. When the phone finally does ring and you see THAT NUMBER, you actually hesitate and take a huge breath that you're afraid to exhale for fear of everything crashing down. And you haven't even answered the phone.

I was at work when "the call" came. Not just the "you have results" call. The voicemail left was closer to "you need to call us as soon as you get this." When I got to a phone to return the message, I was never more glad that I had shut myself in my bosses office and she was gone for the day. There is nothing like hearing that your results are back, but that you'll need to make an appointment to discuss them, and we have openings tomorrow, Friday afternoon, if you're able ...

I don't know which emotion hit first, it was something between angry at myself, scared for the girls, and worried about my friends and family. I don't think I cried for an entire week -- nor did I talk to anyone about it. There was nothing to talk about. Yet.

Friday afternoon, under the guise of running an errand, I left work early and went to my doctor's office. There is never a more alone feeling than knowing you're about to hear something so very possibly life changing that you'll wish you had someone by your side just to hold you up. But I didn't have anyone. I was alone in receiving this, just as I would be alone in the fight of it. It is my body that is sick, my mind that has to go through the thoughts, the pain and the sadness and joy of it, so it was only fitting that it was only me who would hear what came next. Fear has never suited me well, and I wasn't about to let it start.

I do feel bad for doctors. I cannot imagine having to tell someone who's children you've delivered, whom you've come to know and joke with and laugh with, that they are sick. I can understand the stammering, the sideways glances, the moments taken to recollect thoughts and choose words. I am also grateful that this friendship is one that I share with my doctor ... I don't know that it would have been easier to have just been "another chart" when I was told.

When he came in, he was more serious than normal. His expression soft, and yet clouded, he started, and didn't mince words. "We think you have cancer."

Now, you remember, I always expected this. From the moment of that first biopsy years before, it had been something I had planned for. I was calm and calculated in my response, enough that I think I surprised him. I had him fooled, but of course, I was a spinning spiral of confusion and fear and the sickening realization that no matter how much you think you expect something, that when it actually happens, you feel like an entire convoy of Mack trucks decided to drive over you and back a few times.

I have family members and friends that recommend taking notes at every appointment. I keep meaning to bring something, but I suppose for me, writing something makes it real, and I don't know that I am ready for all of the numbers and the language to be a part of my reality yet. Because of this, I came away from that appointment firmly believing that I had cervical cancer. Wake up call to me by the next visit.

When I went in again to discuss the ultrasound results, it was obvious, quickly, that I was wrong. I had endometrial (uterine) cancer, and it had spread to my cervix. This was when the first jolt of fear hit me. This was not a part of what I expected at all.

That week, I was noticeably snappy. I was irritable and emotional, the latter of which is not normal for me. I would cry over silly things, oversensitive in my reactions to jokes and normal interactions. Finally, one night, I broke down to another of my closest friends. It was the first time I actually let the fear and sadness and worry of it all overtake me.

... this is all I can emotionally and physically handle tonight, so it is to be continued ...

My mind (or, the loss of creativity)

It's come to my thoughts lately, that for years, I protected what I cherished most. My mind.

Even through painful and debilitating bouts of depression, I hesitated and often refrained from treatment so as to not scar or impair my ability to do what I love most, writing. And somehow, in the gaining control over the depression by avoiding that which causes it, I have also encapsulated every essence of what made me creative. I have become dull.

My fear of words has surfaced in the trying-to-find-myself period that we are currently in (more commonly referred to as fall). This is usually a time of re-build, re-focus, re-invention and creativity for me, and this year,  I'm just not feeling it. I have found that when I try to tap into these words - the way that colors and pictures and emotions could pour themselves into a line filled by rises and falls, how curves and paths of language used to dance and skip along the page for me - that I am instead trying to pull them weakly from behind the bars I have guarded them in with. This is so unnatural to me, this fear of expression. Why am I so afraid?

I suppose that in a way I am afraid of the emotions hidden beneath. In the last year I have cried more, laughed more, lost more and found more than I ever have in my life thus far. And yet, with most things, I feel nothing. I have surface attachment to things, even to people. I feel love as though it is a butterfly fluttering its wings softly against my skin but it never finds a place to land and take a few seconds respite. It flits near and far from me, depending on who or what is happening in my realm in that moment, and only in that moment. I feel sad moments much the same, tears one moment, numbness the next, as though I have no right to cry.

I suppose that I also feel that I am "too busy" to take the time anymore, to write, or to feel. It's exhausting, this task of creating ones soul on a page, all of the thoughts and emotions messy and the words taking on meanings and lives of their own ... knowing that likely no one but your own mind can understand, but praying that someone will, all the same. You give  birth to these words, this language, and then you set it free and watch it flounder in a world where everyone speaks French and it is fluent only in Greek.

I know most of my fear lies in reaching out to the emotions that writing requires. It means giving up control over the depression side of things and allowing the good, the bad, and the ugly to rear its wonderful impossible head again, and then trying to clean up the aftermath. I have seen those days, the darkness that causes shadows even in the bright sun, the tears that run rivers over lined paper, causing the blue ink to run like veins on marred skin. Un-caging these animals means letting all of them loose, for where you free one, you must free them all.

I fear the intensity that becomes me when I write. I no longer see the world as it is, but I create it as I want it to be. It wreaks havoc and instability into my life, causing chaos and the screeching cries for change that I don't know that I am young enough for, not to mention capable of,  following anymore. I have children, a job, responsibility that I have enough problems shouldering without the distraction of the dance of language.

Yet tonight, here I sit. I am writing. It beckons me, the words taunt me, daring me to pull them one by one, little by little and to let them breathe. It feels empowering somehow, freeing, and also has the feeling of playing with an entire case of zippo lighters while standing next to a gasoline tanker.

It makes me wonder just how often I can do this. How much can I write and feel and yet maintain control over the beast of depression? How much of my mind and my soul and my words can I bring to life before they take on a life of their own that smothers the one I need to have? Is the one that I think I need merely a misconception of perspective?

I suppose I feel that I am not at a point in my life, within my friends, that I can be the creative one. I have been overshadowed by artistic talent with vision that humbles me and intimidates my desire to put anything to paper, for how can I ever measure up to such a view. I am afraid of my words not being good enough... but good enough for whom? Is the fear that I feel enough to bind the words forever?

I know this -- without this part of me living and breathing, it kills the rest. I long for nights with a keyboard and a blank screen, begging me for patterns and texture, asking me to create it, to build it and make it everything in my mind - almost as much as I fear it. Maybe I haven't stopped protecting it after all.