Something happened to me last week that opened a door to my past. A deep and dark precipice that threatened to let me drop off it’s edge with no remorse. And it broke me.
It was a moment of rejection. A painful reminder that not everyone will like me even when I’m the best version of me I can possibly be. Suffice it to say that the after-effects of this incident left me reeling for days and I couldn’t gather my bearings. I found myself filled with embarrassment for being shunned in front of others, then dread at the idea that I was no longer liked by this individual. I pushed the thoughts aside till the next day when my mind and heart suddenly filled with crippling anxiety. I spent the day in a daze, struggling to re-route my thoughts every time they would resurface. I made comfort food, had a movie night with my child, and for all intense and purposes “forgot” about the day before.
But I didn’t forget.
The next day– two days after the initial incident– I had my very first “angry” gym session. The workout was vigorous and aggressive as my body tried to release what my mind would not. After all, I wasn’t writing anymore, how could my mind possibly find a way to sort through the pain?
And then I slept. I slept the day away and come the following morning I felt almost normal again. Not happy but not devastated either. I was past it. Or at least I was past the initial blow.
I meditated on this and asked myself, why was I letting something so small and irrelevant get to me in this way? I’m a strong woman who doesn’t place her self value in what people think of her. And yet at that moment, and days afterward, I was 12 again… And it was horrifying.
So the writing bug returns as a symptom of childhood insecurity and bullying. It never occurred to me that writing was necessarily that essential to my self esteem. I mean, I knew it kept me calm and sorted out some muddled thoughts, but I never truly understood to what degree it played in my self-preservation, not to mention my sanity. But as it turns out, it’s more important than I ever gave it credit for and so I’ve come to the conclusion that it can’t go away.
I deal with pain through words. It’s not what my gift was given to me for but it’s what I use it for, even if I didn’t realize it. So as my therapy and as my essence the words have to come back.
Living with bi-polar means I don’t have control over my emotions; they fluctuate and are erratic. Medication can calm the ups and downs, but there isn’t anything out there that can really harness a sense of control. Except creating worlds.
When I’m writing elaborate fiction I AM in control. That’s the whole point. Without it, I flounder. And so, in spite of trying to push my gift aside, It’s been proven– quite disturbingly, I might add– that writing is my ultimate self care and I couldn’t ditch it even if I wanted to.