Twenty-five years ago, give or take, I read a book called ‘The Artist’s Way’ by Julia Cameron. I loved it because it was all about embracing your creativity and putting your art in a place of importance in your life. But it was also about learning to recover from the pain of having your creativity suppressed by fear.
Twenty-five years later, give or take, I understand that fear very well now.
When I graduated high school I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. My grades sucked, I didn’t take the SAT or ACT tests, and since both my parents were working I probably wouldn’t have qualified for a lot of financial aid so I decided college wasn’t for me. What I wanted to do was focus on my writing, and my parents let me as long as I pulled me weight around the house-which I did.
When I was twenty, my father had his first heart attack followed by a series of injuries that forced him into early retirement. Then right after I turned twenty-one, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. At that time, unknown to anyone until now, I decided to put my own goals and dreams for my writing, and my own life on hold to help take care of my mother. I have no regrets over this decision and never will. But my parents didn’t let me give up on my writing.
More times than I can ever remember, after a long hard day of work, chores, and errands my mother and father would say to me, “We got this.” And they would tell me to go off and write, or read, or get something to eat. In addition to that, they paid my writing group dues for years along with conference and workshop fees. And multiple times my father actually drove me to my writers group meetings because he and my mother were adamant that I needed to get out of the house and do something for myself.
I knew there were people in my life who didn’t support my writing, or me having any kind of life of my own. It wasn’t out-and-out shit to my face for the most part. But when you’re as quiet as I am you see behind the masks people wear, and you hear it in people’s voices, and feel it in their subtle actions that make you feel like you’re doing something wrong even when you’re not. After my mother died, my father told me he and my mother caught a lot of flack for letting me live at home and pursue my writing such as it was back then.
I kept quiet when my mother was alive because I feared both her and my father would turn on me if I spoke out against that flack, and kick me out of the house and out of their lives forever. But after my father told me what he did and that he would always support me and my writing, I wish I had given the proverbial middle finger to all of that flack and rocked my life so much harder. Instead, I retreated and tried to keep to myself as much as I could. I felt like I was not worthy or able to have any kind of a life, and that if I pursued any kind of social life or writing career someone would have tried to destroy me for even thinking about it, much less pursuing it in some way.
This fear impacted me as hard as it did because it came to me at the most vulnerable time in my life all those years ago. When I was dealing with huge waves of emotions at the horror of watching my parents die slowly and painfully. It tore into me all the way to the depths of my soul, a huge bloody talon that has taken me years to remove but left behind a wound and pain that I will never forget.
It has taken me four years to put this wound into words, and deal with it through writing. And it’s harder than hell for me to write this because I can hear voices in my head telling me this is bullshit, and that I’m a complete idiot for saying anything like this, especially in a public way. But the most important thing I’ve learned over the last few years is this: I’m not a bad person. I’m just as fucked up as anyone else and I’ve made mistakes. The biggest mistake I’ve ever made was giving people power over me they never really had, or gave a shit enough about to follow through on.
What has brought my words into the light here now is this: it’s not about me, nor is it about the people who’ve hurt me in the past. It’s for others who have been through things like I have, felt emotions like I’ve had, and are still thinking that people have the power to hurt them. To them I say this: no one has the power to hurt you unless you give it to them. For me, writing and going public with this is taking power away from people that was never theirs to begin with.
I feel like I’m in a stage of recovery now because most of what I write isn’t being trashed as soon as I get it out of me. I still feel fear but I tell myself that fear is just an echo of the past. I tell myself my words will be met mostly with silence. I’m fine with silence because I have lived with it for so long. But I’ve broken it inside myself, and it’s not the shattering I thought it would be. It’s like the rising sun breaking over the horizon.