Eight Years of Writers Block

The clink of keys housed in an aluminum frame. The blue lit screen that peers back at me from the abyss. The silent companionship that I reviled in for so long. The familiar flow of energy. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins uniting my heart and my mind. The unwillingness to stop my newfound journey was so freeing, that I wondered, what had I been afraid of for so long? It had been eight long years since I sat down to write. It wasn’t that life had become too tedious, although the wild call of motherhood did meet my heart, deaths and births enveloped life, degrees were sought for better futures. It wasn’t that I wasn’t brimming to explode from the ideas that entranced my thoughts, because I daydreamed my fantasies each day, some for days at a time. It wasn’t a lack of inspiration, for life had given me so many gifts. No, It was the fear that grief would overtake anything I had hoped to write.

At the naive age of 17, I fell into the tangled web of drugs. The guiding force in my life was no longer strong enough to overcome the pain I had lived with for so long. I had no idea the heartache I would bring on myself. The pain from my childhood was nothing compared to knowing I had ruined my own life, and living in the aftermath of those decisions. I had lost everything; my family, my friends, all my worldly possessions, but most of all, I lost that spark that allowed me to write out my wildest dreams without an ounce of inhibition. That spark was a part of who I defined myself as, being disconnected felt painful to the point of insanity. Who was I if not a writer? Try as I might, I could not write.

At 20, being sober and a bit more educated on life, I found joy in the form of tiny words on a small digital screen, the modern day equivalent of two pink lines: Pregnant 3+. Me? A Mother? But my own relationship with my mother was strained, she didn’t even raise me. How could I raise a child without having been raised by a mother myself? I guess I would figure it out. I was overcome with fear, fear I would damage a child as badly as I was, but there was a light blooming from my heart. A love for the little heartbeat I had heard on a monitor. But still, even through this gauze of confused emotions, when writing used to be my therapy, my way of working through what life had thrown at me, still I could not write.

Later that year, at 27 weeks pregnant with my daughter, my Papa passed away. That person that loves you regardless of your shortcomings and for the life of you, you can’t figure out why? Especially, when they actually don’t have to love you. That was my Papa. It takes a special person to step up at the age of 74, to raise a child from your estranged daughter. A child you had never met, until a social worker brought her to you at the airport. ‘This will be a temporary placement’, they tell you, voice steady and sure. Six months, six years, 16 years later and she’s still with you. A once in a lifetime kind of love, that I didn’t truly appreciate until he was gone. A childhood filled with love and stories flooded my mind; roses in the garden, lunch at the club, songs on the way to school, nursery rhymes and bedtime stories. And still, I could not write.

13 weeks later, screaming and red, with bright eyes and a full head of hair, my daughter was born. The fear I would mess up this perfect little human, only reared its ugly head stronger than it had before. Would she like me? Would she hate me? Would I be able to stay with her? Would I screw up? Could I give her the family I never had? Would I fail? This became my terrorizing mantra. The fear that bred itself to multiply till it was all consuming. My Papa was gone, the person who always had advice for me. The one person I wanted at the hospital with me. I longed for that special moment. The moment when your parent picks up your first born child and gives you advice, or cries, or laughs with joy. That moment for us never came, and if we never got that moment, what foundation did we have? I picked up a pen, I stared at the blank page in front of me. I willed the words I had wielded so skillfully in the past to meet me now, now when I needed them most. And yet, they would not come. Still, I could not write.

A month after my 22 birthday, my mother entered the nursing home on hospice care. I had just finished my second semester of nursing school when she called me and told me, ‘I can’t fight anymore.’ Sadness enveloped me in a way, I did not think it would. This was not new. This would be the fifth death in what, five years? I had done this before, and surely I would again. Age is a cruel mistress, and Death even more so. For death does not care about how many years you have had, or how many more those who love you have left. Age at least forfeits you time, where Death calls, and does not like to be cheated. 54 is so young, but hadn’t everyone died young? Aunt Stephy at 51, Mamaw on her 65th birthday, Aunt Sue at 60, Rudy at 57, now Momma at 54. A whole life, reduced to an ebony box stored at the back of my closet. Through the numbness the emotions persisted. They haunted me, although I simply wished to be left to the desolate place in my mind, that I had so become accustomed to. Every time I picked up a pen at work, or at home, or out in the world, a voice at the back of my mind would whisper, ‘just write.’ The words had been lost for so long, how would I find them now? So still, I could not write.

Five months later, her father and I split up for good. I had only just passed nursing school, I hadn’t even been awarded my license yet. Papa and Momma were gone, so where would I go? What would I do? I had built and planned a life with this man who no longer wanted me. I had given him a beautiful child, immersed myself in his culture, changed myself for the better, become a nurse, yet I was still not enough? It crushed me. The weight I had been carrying for so long finally came crashing down with this petrifying catalyst. I did not eat, I hardly slept. All I could do was cry. Cry for the failure I had achieved. Phrases started coming to me, snippets of poems waiting to be written. But I pushed them back. I was not ready for solace, and so, still, I could not write.

At 23, I finally got my own apartment. I had rented a room off of craigslist for a year at that point, hiding my daughter and myself away, being as quiet as a toddler could be. I walked into my fresh start, with a sense of betterment. This was the first step! It was a year later and not as soon as I wished, but it was ours. All 520 square feet of it, with its beige walls and 1970s appliances, it would do for now. I had started to heal, and so I bought supplies for writing. A nice journal, favorite pens in all colors, a lap desk. I sat down with my wine and new, crisp supplies and waited. And I waited. And I waited. I waited till four AM and yet the words would not come. I prayed for anything to come to me, for the words I not only needed, but wanted to come. Even just one phrase would do, a sentence, a single word. The words danced at the seams of my mind, taunting me. It felt as if they did not want me anymore, that I had rejected them for so long, now they had rejected me. No matter how I toiled at the pages, still, I could not write.

So I stopped trying. I stopped trying to find the solace I had rejected for so long and instead retreated into the toil of a workaholic life. I worked myself into exhaustion. If I was too busy to feel, I couldn’t hurt right? Wrong. Numbness works in tandem with pain, slowly wearing you down till you have no defenses left. Then it springs its long awaited plan into action. It envelops you, forces its way into your everyday life. It becomes a part of who you are. It had been 3 and half years since I had tried to write. I had done everything else I could think of to feel more like myself, chopped ten inches off of my hair, changed my job, got a new wardrobe, moved 18 hours away from the place I grew up, and still I hurt to the point I felt dead inside. Still, I could not write.

I’m not sure what it was about the Doomsday prompt that compelled me to open my computer and stare at a blank page once more. Was it that I had a heart-shaped locket from my youth? Was it the possibility of $20.000? Was it that I liked the picture that kept incessantly popping up on Instagram? Perhaps, and this is my most likely guess, it was a combination of all three. I had three days left before the deadline so I sat down and waited. And finally, the words began to flow again. The keys played their symphony under my fingertips, the blue lit screen welcomed me into its warm embrace and for the first time in so long, I felt like my soul had returned to me. Like finally I had found myself again. Grief had weaved its way into my story yes, but for the first time in my life it was not the defining factor. Hope was. A couple of days later and one poorly written story and I felt like a new woman. I knew the story I had written was terrible, but I had finally written something. The fact that I was learning to write again made me feel like the actual winner, and I still do. I’ve written every day since then and my career work has improved, my mood has lifted and I feel like I’m finally enjoying life again. So how do I deal with the tedious, overwhelming existence we call life? Well, for the first time in eight years, I can say, I write.