Pure Imagination

What better way is there to explain what writing means to me than to enter a writing contest?

The voices in my head would have me believe there's a million better ways, a million different ways, to describe it but I struggle to shut them out. Before you ask, no these aren't actual voices. Well, I suppose they are to me but not in the sense of 'I'm crazy and the voices tell me to do things' that such a statement tends to bring to mind. Okay, they do tell me to do things but isn't that what part of being a writer is? Having all these voices in your head and knowing that you aren't crazy?

I digress. Apologies. I didn't even make it a paragraph before I started rambling. Another hazard of the trade, I guess.

For as long as I can remember, I've had severe anxiety. Obsessive compulsive disorder too. I didn't realize it when I was younger, I grew up as a 90's kid and therefore right on the cusp of this new world of mental health awareness. I started pulling my hair (something I now know is actually called Trichotillomania though I can never remember how to spell or pronounce it) at age 2. My mom would put a bandana on my head at night to try and stop me from doing it when I slept. All of my teachers used to think my lack of focus could be attributed to any variation of attention deficit disorder when really it was just a crippling fear of not being good enough. Why even bother focusing on my school work, I was just going to fail anyway. No matter what I did, how hard I tried to find some sort of inner peace so I could escape the vortex of inadequacy, nothing worked. These thoughts plagued me, making it nearly impossible for me to get out of my head and function as I should.

So, I decided to try and embrace staying inside it, finding ways to escape the negativity and turn my life into something manageable instead.

Enter writing.

Well, actually, maybe writing didn’t come first. It might have been Disney movies, which in turn had me yearning for more stories of princesses or fantasy creatures that had struggles like me but managed to find a way to make it alright in the end. Cue books then. I’ve been reading for as long as I can remember, though I’m sorry to say I don’t remember if I learned at a miraculously young age or anything like that. Those stories, those characters, took me out of my fear-filled life every time I opened those well-worn spines and inhaled the euphoric scent of aged paper. I liked reading about all the trials those people lived through and still came out of happier than when they went in. In fact, I liked it so much that I decided to start writing my own.

I know a lot of people have this huge epiphany moment they talk about, something that sticks in their memory of when they realized what they were supposed to be doing or what they were meant for. I, however, do not really remember when I started writing exactly. The memory is associated with the telltale beeps and dings and static those of us over a certain age attribute to signing online. It goes hand in hand with my mom, a naturally (and rightfully so) distrusting person, warning me about the dangers lurking in the chat rooms I used to visit. I was lucky to have her looking out for me because that same worry and anxiety could easily have led me in a different direction. How easy would it be to prey on a young girl just looking for an escape from her own head?

Instead of monsters, though, I found my people. I found my escape. I found games....role-playing games, to be specific.

Now, I know what you're probably thinking. Role-playing = dressing up in costumes and acting out scenarios like a Renaissance Festival, right? WRONG.

While there certainly may be some of that for certain groups, admittedly even my own considering my love for Dungeons and Dragons, the point of these games that I found is simple: write. Several people find each other through common interest searches and create a game with a premise and plot and all manner of things. I find the easiest way to describe it is to say that it's like writing a story with multiple people instead of on your own. For those like me, with severe anxiety and an ever-present feeling that what they do isn't good enough, it's also a good way to get the creativity out without the paralyzing fear of sending something to be published for all the world to see. It's also the one way I found to get inside my head, delve into the deep dark recesses, and put those voices to good use. Instead of constantly questioning myself and my decisions, instead of fighting a never-ending battle with my own mind, I can channel that energy into something that lets me escape. Something that brings me not only happiness but solace.

Something I'm meant to do.

Thinking about it now, I can smile despite how difficult I know it felt at the time to deal with the constant worry. I remember how, before laptops became an everyday accessory, I would write these stories in notebooks that would come to school with me. My friends and I would pass them around, yes in class, and continue the writing even when a computer wasn't available. Those notebooks followed me through the years, through high school and into when I eventually moved out on my own, through everything. Even when the pictures I'd meticulously printed from the internet and taped on them, of various heartthrobs my teenage self was obsessed with mind you, grew to be nearly forgotten by the fanbase at large the notebooks remained with me.

They had an almost reverent space in whatever closet I had wherever I was at the time, as I always told myself I would reconfigure the things written in them and show them to the world one day. I would share the joy writing brought with people besides the trusted few in the community of like-minded, anxiety-ridden comrades I'd embedded myself among. That day never came.

Until now.

I entered a challenge on Vocal this week and it was the first time I'd ever put anything I'd written anywhere but on those role playing forums. It's as thrilling as it is terrifying, honestly. Waiting for the initial review was like no anxiety I've ever felt before. Would they reject it outright? Does Vocal even do that? Yet, the email telling me that my story was approved filled me with such joy I could barely contain it. You'd think I had gotten published and my stories were now available all over the world.

I guess, in a way, they kind of are?

The imposter syndrome may be real but there's a freeing sort of peace now that it's out for more than a select group to see. Anxiety tells me not to be happy, that it's no big deal, but that inner saboteur (as RuPaul would say) can't truly overshadow the happiness I feel. The giddiness. The sense of pride. If I had known it could feel this good then I would have shared long ago.

Even better than that pride, though, is the new inspiration I feel. I've already started several more stories, letting them sit in my drafts and beckon to me like tempting sirens. The constant struggle in my mind is quieted, replaced by this overwhelming need to create. My hands, having long since been redirected from the hair, no longer need to be constantly occupied to keep the idleness from leading to bad habits. Nothing has ever kept my mind so engaged, so at peace as writing.

Over the years, I've tried a variety of hobbies to clear my head and disconnect as a way to recharge my social batteries. Crafting (that one didn't make it much further than the collage of hotties I attached to my notebooks), video games (I still enjoy this one but it doesn't have the same effect), reading, sports, the list goes on. I enjoy all of these things but nothing feels quite the same.

Does simply writing qualify as a creative "activity"? In my opinion, it is one of the most active hobbies one can pursue. You have to be so many things when you're a writer, there's so much more involved than just putting words down on paper. Building a world takes a lot more work than people think, forming characters to fit in that world is even more involved. There's research, there's a lot of Google-fu, there's just a lot. Then you factor in the emotions that creating these scenarios and how they impact the characters you made and it's like throwing hurdles at your real-life children. You get invested, you become an expert in things you never had cause to know before, and it's a part of you.

Because writing, without everything else, is really just putting part of you out there for everyone to see. And it's exhausting.

But more rewarding than I could ever describe. Which is not just my anxiety talking. I don't think our highly developed and complex language truly has the words to convey how it feels. You either know or you don't.

Luckily, I know.