Accountability Has a Cost

Accountability has a cost and it is your happiness.

I took quite the break. I'm not sure what else to say, other than I just couldn't find the inspiration to love myself.

Writing comes easy to me, it always has. What has become increasingly difficult for me lately is this feeling that I really don't have anything to say. Nothing of great value at least. Sure I can fill a void, add space, words, and diction, but I feel as though I am just talking out of my own ass? Imposter syndrome creeps in, and it's this endless loop of sadistic shit that seems unstoppable. You wouldn't believe what I can say - about me. Maybe you do though, because I know I am not the only one suffering from mental illness, and the lack of accountability from parental figures, which turned into an overcompensation of consequences.

So, I am coming to the only community I have. One of the only communities I respect.

I am lost, and broken, and I cannot be the only one in search of similar hearted empathetic creatures.

I am just writing this as a journal entry, my fingers are sore, and my palms cramping, so this aerodynamic keyboard is actually really helping me to get the words out at the rate at which my brain feeds them to me.

Lets start out with a little fiction story so we can better understand the perspective of each other. I am La, my friends call me Lo. The first time I ever wrote anything was in a small Disney signature book. My favorite show at the time was 'Franklin' and I proceeded to scribble lines on the page, telling myself that I was writing what Franklin or his friends would say next.

In the years to follow, feelings on the page were not so much of a necessity, more so a consequence. Any feelings or thoughts on the page, were no longer safe in the physical space. Feelings, opinions and thoughts in the household I grew up in were severe, life-threatening, and potentially very dangerous if gotten ahold of. So, I learned something extremely helpful, and harmful. I kept it all in. My thoughts, my opinions, my feelings on all subjects whether they pertained to me or not. Sitting quietly and looking put together, or calm was a much safer place to live in, than challenging the norm.

I stopped writing on the page at the ripe age of four. Just a few short years after I learned how to write at all. I did not let my thoughts out again on the page, for another 15 years. That is death to a writer. I was almost twenty years old again before I put any of my feelings, thoughts, or experiences down. Twenty, and I was finally coming around to the idea that maybe I was good at something?

When I had turned seventeen, I had an English teacher who had pulled me aside to say that the essay I had given him was exceptionally good - I should briefly say, obviously I wrote again before I was 20, but nothing of substance, nothing from me. This English teacher is actually a saint, he did teach me so much and really did fuel that dead start creative drive. Honestly though, he really had no idea what he was in for. I hadn't heard anything but negative feedback for close to almost sixteen years, so honestly what was I suppose to do? Say thank you? I know? HELL NO. I clammed up so fast sprinted out of there, down the hall, and down the back staircase before that conversation could do anymore damage. Damage as in lift me up and compliment me. The number one sign of a damage human, unable to accept compliments.

How the hell could HE think I was great? Please! It was just some stupid essay over teen issues, in a class surrounded by kids who probably didn't understand, or even fathom my unique in our very volatile household.

A writer? YEAH OKAY!

I am shit, worth nothing, and whatever I have to say defiantly doesn't deserve to be bound.

So that is where I am at. Repaying this fucking conversation over, and over again in my mind, because now I am in my late twenties, and all I want is to write. All I want is to connect with like minded souls who read between the lines, and find beauty in what others call mundane. To connect with the few that may understand this horror, of never being good enough. It is not even about recognition, it never really was for me. The older I get though, the more the beast is unhappy with the decision I have made to conform.

I took two whole months off of writing. I wrote nothing. Not in my journal, not randomly when I would receive an auditory message. Nothing for eight weeks. It got me no where but further into my depressive state.

So, I am here. Writing this because I feel called to, and understanding the privilege of even being able to write my personal thoughts on the page, or create an escape for those of us who are looking for a healthy one.

There have been so many other times I have come to this platform in hopes of some divine sign; to save my life, or bring my clarity, and each time I've been received. I remember being broken, short breaths, and stiff lungs - reading an article posted by a fellow writer on Vocal. Her name is Stephanie DePalmer and this particular piece is called 'You Don't Talk To Your Parents - And That Is Okay'. It happened again, when I met a vocal friend Dante Mitchell and got lost in his diction, and fantasy. It has happened so many times on this platform, so many times have the words of others saved me (and us), meant more to us than the cramped fingers placing it in physical form. Your words brought me back to myself, and I am hoping by just doing what I know has to be done, my part, what I can control, how I show up. May other like myself feel compelled to give it a go, continue to fight for themselves not just a cause.

I am sure I will read through this and just be disgusted with how I jump from thought to thought, how my sentence structure should be tighter, and my diction more elaborate, and vocal. What I know for sure is that I cannot keep myself contained. It has happened for far too long, being the biggest critic of my work, being the absolute nightmare of an agent that I am not, and undermining my own thought process, all because the page has to be 'perfect'. It doesn't, it is perfectly imperfect because you are clinging to the keyboard, you've stopped crying, every other word is misspelled because you HAVE to get it out as you feel it.

Do you know that I have ten unpublished stories still sitting, waiting for me to mark them up again with a red pen, wit and satirical hate. Stories that could help me, could help you, and yet I am being a perfectionist, sitting with my imposter syndrome telling my soul to hold on for just a few more minutes because I don't believe I am perfect, and if I am not absolutely perfect then why am I showing up?

I am human. I will never be perfect. There is one thing in each of us that is perfect though, and it is whatever divine gift you carried into this life for this particular experience. Some of us are artist, healers, wisdom keepers, others are writers. Our craft, our thought process is meant to reflect the human experience, which is imperfect, messy, exceptional, all filled with tiny mundane miracles. I'll show up like this. I'll take accountability for this, because this is the most honest I have been, since beginning the journey.