Why I Write…

I am a 36 introverted divorcee who lives alone with two dogs. I work from home. I go to school online. I have very few friends. Writing is what helps keep me sane. There are days where the only one who hears my words are my dogs and this screen as I type them. I post my words out into the digital universe, realizing that they potentially will never be read, but somehow the slight chance that they will, makes me feel less alone. Writing makes me feel heard.

Relationships are hard. I get triggered by people. I take meds to try to make me more balanced, practice mindfulness, go to therapy. I do all kinds of things, but in the end, being alone is just easier. It is less painful. I think of myself as a fairly funny person with a good amount of insight. That is the one good thing gained from a ton of isolation, you become extremely insightful. I’ve begun to accept that my life, for the most part, will be an alone journey. An extremely insightful one, and from this I will do my best to make lemonade from lemons. I will continue to try to find purpose. To be a better person than who I was yesterday. To enjoy each moment for what it is with comfort in knowing that this is the path that was handed me. A path that has many positive aspects. We all have positive and negative aspects of ourselves and our lives. The discontent is found when looking at those around you and comparing.

Writing to me is release. It is like taking the steam kettle which is screaming like no one’s business and removing the heat. It is taking the 2-liter of soda which I just dropped and accidentally kicked across the kitchen and slowly loosening the cap. It is the feeling of taking your shoes and bra off after a long day. For those that drink, it is the feeling after your first drink. I can turn to it when overcome with emotions, good or bad and I can write until those feelings become more manageable. Neither emotion in their extreme form is bearable to me. When I write I am not judged or critiqued, at least not during the actual act of writing.  While writing I do not feel anxious that someone is tired of hearing me talk. That I might be, being selfish by only expressing my thoughts. To write for the sake of writing, with no intended audience, there are no rules. No limits. No restraints. True freedom of expression.

When I write, there are times when I feel tapped into something almost supernatural. I can physically feel my heart peeling open and some sort of energy, flowing out or in, or both. The words, that flow, almost don’t seem like mine. I feel apart of something much greater than myself. Other times when I write, I am very aware that it is just me. That is ok too.

When I sit down to my computer, there is a sense of excitement, because I rarely know what words will end up coming out. Sometimes I am quite pleased and other times, I think, what rubbish. Regardless of what I think, how I feel is always better.

There are days and times, when I will be out doing something and I am struck with this overwhelming need to write. It is almost like the writing fairies tapped me on the shoulder and whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I can’t wait to get back home to write and I just pray that the inspiration doesn’t leave before I get there.

Writing is my companion. My dearest friend. It listens, it accepts, it is always there whenever I need it. Writing is a dream, a vision unexplored, new territory just waiting to be discovered. It is a sad monologue in times of grief, an angry rant about the unjust world, a sappy poem from a love-struck heart.

I am never sad when the words stop. I expressed what was needed. It is similar to the last bit of toothpaste being squeezed from the tube. Being drained but in a good way, like the relief when after the second flush everything goes down. I know the words will return. They will ask to be shared and when they do I will be here, ready and waiting.

Yield

Yield, dualistic,
A result from action,
Abstaining action obtaining no results
Friendly, comforting, and a compassionate word,
Surrendering to the surroundings,
The car yields to oncoming traffic,
A kind gesture,
Not progressing but providing safe returns.
She yields to his argument,
Choosing happiness over being right,
Acceptance,
He yields under pressure,
Stupidity or strength?
Preservation or perseverance?
The tree yields to the hurricane’s gail force winds,
Weakness or wisdom?
Understanding its limits while adapting to its environment,
She studied hard yielding great results,
Economic term,
Productive,
It’s my yield,
Possessive,
Tangible such as a basket of apples,
Something I can shoulder and carry,
She yields to her touch,
Vulnerability and adventure,
Yield, so much complexity in such a simple word.

Word of the day:
Yield

Compassion?

Where do you find compassion?
Where does it hide?
Why do I have so little?
Why am I so mean to me inside?
Others recommend, treat yourself as you would a friend,
Unfortunately, I am also hard on them.
If I have no understanding of my own mistakes,
How can I have any for yours?
How do I cross this ocean of self-damnation to forgiving shores?

It’s hard to see a future when things will be different…when I will be different,
When you’re in your emotions things feel like they will always be the same,
Looking back I know, that statistically, this isn’t true,
As long as I keep seeking change,
My circumstances will change and I will too.

Someone said recently, that what kept him going was the thought,
That what if tomorrow is the day when things will get better?
Castaway said it best, “So now I know what I have to do. I have to keep breathing. And tomorrow the sun will rise, and who knows what the tide will bring in.”

She Waits

Moon – Tread – Cold Night (October writing prompts)

My once barren soul being re-fertilized,
Nature filling that space,
That longing to feel desired,
When I take walks and really be,
She is the woman I’ve been looking for.
I breathe and she puts smiles back to my face.
Smiles that at many times feel like 1,000 pounds to produce,
I force myself to bring it to surface even when she is unable,
Acting as if,
Hoping that the laws of the universe will return my output,
Waiting for magic,
I wait because the moon has promised it to me,
What it is, is unknown.

Treading these cold nights of my soul,
Using this time to prepare,
Growing in my awareness of both myself and the mother who surrounds me,
Trusting more each day,
Knowing that every need will be met,
Continuing the mantras, the service, the seeking,
Building the beautiful new construction of myself,
Tearing down old walls of doubt and fear,
Digging deep,
Relinquishing fresh soil where new and beautiful things can be planted,
She knew what it would take,
Time alone,
The inability to use money or women as distraction,
Endless opportunities for service,
Guides both in and out of recovery,
Providing direction to where I am needed,
I await the time when I am there,
On the road,
Hand in hand with the her, the one who requested that I follow.

 

Things I Hated, Now I love

The service stretching on,
Continued yawns,
Forced to stand and kneel,
Stinky smells and songs with bad rhythm,
Things I hated, now I love.
Connection and family,
“One bread, One body”,
Songs from my youth,
Traditions now revered.

Cold winter day chores,
Expectations of hard labor clearing wood,
Lazy and much rather being up to no good,
Things I hated, now I love.
The crisp clean air,
The smell of fireplace wafting from where,
Football, warm stew, and buttered bread awaited,
Bonding together over the success of stacked wood on the porch,
Now prepared for frosty nights,
Sitting together around Christmas lights.

Being stuck making small talk to some relative I barely knew,
All the while wondering what my friends were up to,
Taking my leave as soon as I could,
Things I hated, now I love.
Barbecue, horseshoes, and swimming,
In twilight chasing fireflies and listening to stories of my family’s past,
Wishing to grasp the fond memories of all those things I once hated.
Those things that now I love.

Vulnerability

I unbutton my shirt and open the window,
Revealing the dirty parts of my heart.
With my words I display my flaws,
Forming a mirror in which is a reflection of you.
Courage departs to doubt,
Did you hear me? What do you see?
Old wounds lying bare, scabbed partially bleeding,
Each disclosure rubbing them ever so slightly.
Am I being helpful or seeking acceptance?
Does it aid in my healing or delay it?
Painful to be seen, but even more so to carry this alone.
Relate and not compare.
Connection only through the removal of masks.
I will continue to expose myself to you,
Will you get naked with me?

Future Me

This heavy sheath,
Draped around my shoulders,
Pressing against the curves on my hips,
Pulling on the skin beneath my arms,
Tugging on my second chin,
Hate oozing out from within.

Unable to perfect my goals,
Self-discipline steps out for a meal,
Dictating how I feel,
Not giving up,
But not getting there.
As my fat disappears, so will my isolation,
Acceptance and love, always just another 10 pounds away.
Unable to be seen, until I am worthy to be seen.

Cognitive dissonance puts the monster in hibernation for awhile,
Psychologically incapable of holding it for long,
But it returns,
It awakens,
Like walking out of a dark theater,
Disorienting.
Painfully blinding.

Digging in my heals,
Trying to stay in today,
Drifting,
Impatient for the future me,
You’d like her.