I have been unable to write because it isn’t fun for me anymore.
In recent times, whenever I tried to write, a ton of voices in my head would stop me. I remembered what different friends of mine had said, and I would chastise myself as I wrote. “Don’t use so many pronouns!” “Adverbs show you’re an amateur!”
That person doesn’t like this type of sentence. This person despises that kind of plot.
It isn’t my own work anymore. It isn’t my inspiration. It’s just me worried that I’m going to offend someone.
In February 2018, I’m going to be 41. That’s pretty crazy
and almost unbelievable for me, but that’s not the focus of this essay.
I’m here to warn you about turning 40, and at the same time
do a quick sidebar about my own emotional journey this past year.
Let’s backpedal a bit, though. This year I have undergone
physical, emotional, and mental changes.
The physical changes are probably too detailed and personal
to really be comfortable for either of us, so let’s move on to the emotional.
So…I’ve had enough with the insulting memes.
You know the ones.The clever, one or two sentence imageyou
see on your social media, designed to offend one crowd and give a “Hell, yeah!”
I’m not talking about one particular post, because this form
of bullying comes in all forms and against all groups. Yes, bullying. If you’ve
ever posted something like this (and I’m pretty sure I have too),you probably
think that ‘bullying’ is a strong word choice.In that case, let’s take it
apart and discuss.
I was hanging clothes in my closet, and remembered something
I saw on Buzzfeed’s FB feed today (yes, I take my Buzzfeed/FB experiences very
seriously).A woman struggling with her weighttossed out her old clothes, and
it helped her journey to feeling better about herself.
Without really thinking about it, I did just that. I removed
the clothes I have to look at every day without being able to fit them. And…as
can be expected…I cried. I’m not even sure why at first – I just took a cute
green fairy shirt off its hanger, folded it, and placed it on my bed, then went
back for more cute clothes that were mean because they didn’t fit (and haven’t
for a long time).
I have been going through some of my old poems lately, and
it hasn’t been the best experience, emotionally speaking.
I’ve been writing poems actively since the age of 15, so
going through these documents is much like stepping into a time machine. I
remember vividly everything I felt while writing each one, and most of the
time, they reminded me of things I’ve done with my life that… should have been
I royally screwed up my first marriage. After we split up, I
wrote a series of poems that aren’t suitable for public consumption, either due
to its content or just the hateful, incomprehensible babbling I seem to do.