Of late— no scrap that, since last year– I’ve developed this illness of being too stuck in my head that I can’t seem to find a way out. Writing, being the main victim.
I would often find myself wondering why writing was no longer therapeutic and why I couldn’t publish one of 5-10 drafts, sitting patiently in my inbox.
I wondered it over coffee, as the beer tap sloshed foamy white head all over my feet at work, even in the monotony of getting from A to B without music.
Hence, my vow of silence.
I came to the conclusion that because of my degree forcing me to express my creativity visually (fashion) it became like a conversion therapy. Too much tulle or politely rationed pockets that highlight or frame a strong silhouette or collar; yep, that’s how I got my highs.
So with this realistic diagnosis, I began feeling at peace with it. Can’t have everything, I suppose.
Writing was always something I would do to think. Untangle; so I didn’t have to unload all my thoughts all at once onto my best-friend in a 1/2 hour phone convo or over a cocktail, which would steal all my epiphanies and nuggets of truth and swap them for blissful floating on a sea of tequila and atmospheric deliciousness.
Even on my trip abroad this year, I found the more tired and sick I got the less words would show up the next day. My journal was either splattered with messy scribbles that went on for pages or simply nothing at all.
However writing was harder to let go of then what I first thought. Words had not only helped me so much in getting to know myself, but also gifted me with my first ever label to wear at the end of my name;
“Hi! My name is _____ and I’m a writer”.
Not writing blog posts felt like it wasn’t a “snap and pivot, Uhh huh” as Lizzo preaches, but moreso an abandoning of who I think I am.
However reality seems to be more valid, which is that pushing myself to write never made sense. It was always ended up sounding like endless shallow conversations. It’s a bit like in uni/work, when you’re suppose to be completing an assignment but things aren’t flowing. So you decide to go for a walk instead and find a milky drink before coming back and trying again. Creativity for some of us is intuitive. When you know what you mean, you use words/your actions are more purposeful.
Something to bloat you with satisfaction.
The perfect note to finish on, all you need to do is find it.
However, it’s not like I have stopped writing all together. It is woven into helping me stomach my day, the best I can. Every morning I use it to implement healthy mental habits i.e. affirmations tell me ‘I am enough’ over 60 times some days.
I use to know I was a writer as whenever I got ideas, a pen and clean piece of paper were nowhere to be found. Either the pen is out of ink, the piece of paper is a receipt, bar coaster from work or tissue box that already has endless scribbles on it. That’s also how I know writing and I aren’t not, not together. We still go to the same parties, we just don’t hold hands like we use to. But upon occasion, we do finish each others sentences which makes me want to see it again. I just don’t know exactly when.
I also get a little excited just thinking about one day completing that writing degree I said no to a handful of times. The revisiting of Onomatopoeia and Anaphora- MMMMMMMmmm. Perhaps it will be like a long-lost lover I can romance, when I’m exhausted with fashion and have too many angry things to say.
“The difficulty of literature is not to write but to write what you mean”
-Robert Louis Stevenson.
So, after months of wondering why I couldn’t post, the answer popped straight out of my mouth and onto this very blog post in 0.10 seconds, as the opening line.
And it feels like so much relief, like I just took a long, drag of something smokey. Like bacon.
Stevenson is right, today was a fucking success of epic proportions.