Last year, my friends and I started what is apparently becoming a tradition: choosing a word that will encapsulate the upcoming year. Always a smartass (and not putting much stock in the Law of Attraction), my word for 2013 was “ring.” Not 4 days into the year and I got exactly what I asked for…and we know how that worked out. We’re planning to share our words for 2014 soon, and since experience has taught me that the universe gives me exactly what I say I want, I should be specific when I place my order. For that reason, my word for this year is faith.
“It is clear from your writing that you still feel pristine in all of this.”
I’ve been replaying this condemnation over and over in my head for two months.
I feel pristine.
I don’t know whose writing you’ve been reading, but you haven’t been here.
If you had, you’d know I feel far from pristine.
I feel like I took the most solidly fragile thing I had and, just for the sake of testing physics, I threw it up in the air and dared it to break.
It did. So did I.
I do not feel pristine.
I feel so much unlike myself that I was a stranger in my parents’ home.
My mother says she misses my smile.
I miss it too.
I spent a week’s worth of sleepless nights praying that it isn’t still wrapped up in you, because that means its gone forever.
I spent a week talking myself out of calling you, texting you, emailing you to ask if you’re done playing with me so we can get back to our regularly scheduled program, if I’d served my penance and could come back home.
I spent a week not seeing my friends unless alcohol was involved, because drinking was the only way I could be in a room with other faces this Christmas and pretend to have any joy of my own.
I spent a week looking at the empty ring finger on my left hand, remembering how a year ago you asked me to be my wife, only to ask me to be nothing at all.
I feel pristine in all of this.
Who’s words are you reading?
Mine, I guess. I’ve always been good at mask-wearing, pretending I am bigger and better and brighter and stronger, but this time, I am small and wretched and guilty and weak, and it’s killing me…
…because I should be over this shit by now.
I came across this quote today in a book.
I lived this creed long before I found these words, then I lost my way. I got wrapped up in the conventional and stopped dreaming.
Today, out of nowhere, I have a dream. A ridiculous, incredulous, unreachable dream. And I know I’m going to get it, because I found these words today, and they reminded me of who I used to be before I lost myself.
It appears you do not quite understand what a conqueror is. It is not necessary for me to force things—once I am decided, the others have no choice.
I’m working through at least two new posts in my head, maybe three. Problem is I still have a job, I have a social life again (strictly platonic for the moment, thankyouverymuch), I’m actually trying to write #thatdamnbook, and there are still only 24 hours in a day.
I thank whatever gods may be for a 9-day Thanksgiving break."
I’ve been trying to write the same damn book since I was 23 years old. It has a title, a dedication, a protagonist and an antagonist. It lives in my brain in paragraphs and pages, but never in its full form. It used to crawl around inside of me, dormant but nagging, aching to live at only the most depressing moments of my life.
It is alive now. It is still incomplete, but it is no longer dormant. It is clawing its way out of me with all the force it can gather. The paragraphs and pages and disconnected scenes are rising up against me. They are a Megazord of mutiny, fighting me to get out.
I gotta write this damn book before it kills me."