I get asked a lot of questions about what I do at night or how I survived what I did or why I write. And I’ll probably write a lot of these posts as answers.
I can tell you one of the reasons I loved my ex so much was his capacity to tell stories, improv. He was awesome at coming up with believable, interesting characters at the drop of a hat that you just wanted to interact with.
What? You thought that, after all the horrible things I’ve said, there was nothing good to the man?
Here’s the deal on that, and yes, it is directly related to why I write.
I’m certain that our relationship wasn’t easy on him. No relationship is. Part of why I stayed with him is that my family convinced me that I was too hard to live with and at least this person loved me. Well… love isn’t enough. It can conquer all, as it’s said, but it takes a person who’s willing to live that way.
What I loved about this person was who he was inside the bubble of “us.” That bubble popped. Repeatedly. When we first started talking, it was… I won’t say magical. But we spent hours on the phone talking. Sometimes 10 or more. Living with someone who has PTSD isn’t easy, on top of living with another person. His own fears, his own problems, his own disasters, his own pain. That was a major part of our failure. I know I stepped on his own preferences. Some out of my problems. Some out of my lifestyle preferences. And we fought. All the time.
What I would say to this person now is that my face was not supposed to be his mirror. My life was supposed to part of his own, an important part, but not an extension of who he was or his identity. That bubble was never supposed to be my cage, nor his, if he felt that way.
I say these things gently now instead of in rage, lashing out in the pain of having that bubble pop so many times.
I can say these things now, this way, because I have reconnected with enough of my outside life, inside my head. I can say these now because I have spent the time exploring.
For some people, their “art” is quilting. Or drawing. Or how they make a pie. It’s the expression of passion that I am attracted to, in many ways.
I remember sitting with my Grump, listening to him tell stories about his own childhood, in his dry, factual way, with barely a hint of humor underneath, as he explained how they put someone’s outhouse on a roof. Me? I’d be giggling in laughter.
My mother was the same. We had this hideous, green, scratchy, three seat couch when I was little. We lived in the country at that point. I sat with her, learning to count with coins on the living room table. With her, on the couch, learning to read, well before school started, and I had this book about, yes, a chicken, (never realized how much chicken influenced my life, but hey, it’s a trend now), named Lucille, and I absolutely insisted that the name be pronounced “Luckily.”
I’d listen to stories about Grump’s childhood home. About how they had a massive chicken farm and how “The Egg and I” was so similar to our family’s history. Parts of it anyway. About how my mother hated gathering eggs, but it was one of her chores when she went to visit her own grandmother.
I’d listen to stories about how the feuds between family members got started and the psychology behind it. (Okay, this one isn’t pleasant. I’ll admit that.)
After we moved from this country apartment, my mother, sister, and I lived in suburbia.
I can’t remember how old I was, but, again, somewhere between the age of 6 and 10. I had a box someone gave me. Like one a dryer or washer of some sort would come in. This… this was my space. My “fort,” if you will. Especially since I was so tiny. I had painted it, inside and out. Cut windows. Cut a door. Outside looked like a house. But the inside, if memory serves, I had painted to look like the night sky. I kept my Bobbsey Twin books in there. A pillow and my softest blanket. Stuffed animals. And in this fort of mine, I read. For hours.
I read “To Kill A Mockingbird” and, to be honest, I’ve re-read that book more than two hundred times. Before some of the head injuries, I could recite most portions of it by heart.
While I know most people feel that the book is about racism, and it is, I also know it’s about hatred on so many levels. It’s also a book about acceptance and how one person can change the lives of so many others. It’s also about the frailty of human nature. It changed my life, so many times, each time I read it, and that capacity was born in this cardboard house, along with the philosophy and children’s books I had also read at the time.
As I grew into a teenager, I had the capacity for a nearly photographic memory. And for speed reading. This was before the head injuries made that nearly impossible. I read 20-40 books a week, most weeks.
Stories rarely get old to me. Aspects of them, maybe. Writing styles, definitely. I have my preferences and they have changed a couple of times.
But characters… they are like old friends to me. Even with the memory and reading speed I had, I would go back (still do) and re-read. Visiting. Seeing Boo Radley in my mind and knowing, somewhere, in Scout’s mind, neither she nor Boo would be alone, though they never saw each other again after the end of the book.
My opinion of the Bobbsey twins, of course, changed as I grew. What was originally fun, I made sarcastic comments in my head about how… stick stuck up the ass they were. But that is the way of things.
I love movies and TV for the same reason. If there is one I like, I will re-watch it.
I have my stories. My personal stories. Experiences that are innocent, humiliating, humorous, or extreme. It’s why I don’t fear getting hurt. “Life is pain,” as it’s said in The Princess Bride. Why I don’t have many regrets. I’ve fallen on my ass lots of times. Tried to make relationships, (family, friends, lovers, pets), work and failed at it miserably. I’ve tried too hard at time and waited too long on hope at others. Wisdom doesn’t come from waiting until things are perfect. It comes from experience, good or bad. It isn’t that I seek to be hurt or fail. It’s that I accept that pain is part of life. Somewhat because if you read a book that has no adversity in it, it’s rather boring.
I think, if you find someone that you can create that bubble with, even if it does pop, you should. Why I can love people that I don’t particularly care for. I know my preferences, even if I know that person is going to cause me pain or drive me nuts. I’ve learned to steer clear of specific personality traits. Wisdom again. Knowing that the end result would be disastrous or what’s going to completely piss me off or force a fit that would cause damage to both people. But mainly? People are people and they are going to do what they do.
If it works, it has to be a combination of being open to the unexpected and odd, as well as directly speaking and making decisions to choose those opportunities that spring up in a way that fits both people. Just walking around bumping into those special moments isn’t enough. Why people lose out on their opportunities. Ways to make their life better.
The person who misses out on having loving people in their life who would enrich it because they are waiting for perfect or ideal or that they are too afraid to reach out. The person who gives up on themselves because they accept too little of their needs being met. The person who doesn’t take the job. The person who waits for a resolution to present itself for only one opportunity before moving on to the next. The person who holds on to a grudge for nearly forever and fixes it at the end, instead of living the life that could have been better, sharing experiences with the person they are irritated with. The person who pushes away everyone else in their life solely for the approval and acceptance of a parent that will never see them as a whole human being. The person who thinks that commonly defined sense of intelligence is the only way to solve a problem.
While these are all stories, common ones, I have trouble living this way. I see all those wasted opportunities, know I have lived them. Writing gives me an outlet. To say “so what?” and “what if?” in the ways that would find an opening, instead of a reason to not do.
I do a lot of research. Indulge my curiosity. I leave myself open to learning and living, even if I don’t always leave myself to be open to people all that often anymore. Books create that bubble. Characters. Circumstances.
And while I do get paranoid a bit of having some official come into my house and see things that could be very bad for me- the books on poisons, the internet history of the graphic details of brutality, the target board of pressure points someone could stick a knife into another person, in addition to opening up in this blog about my personal history, it’s part of learning and or my own personal healing. Not to literally cause harm to another. People rarely chose to do something because they think it’s a mistake. They may know it’s wrong and enjoy the twist of it.
With the violence I have personally experienced, putting my head into the mind of a killer or someone who wishes to cause harm isn’t difficult. Actually doing those things would be. I have to think like that person. Sometimes, I have to find a way to physically perform those tasks. What it would look like if someone was thrown down the stairs? What would crash? How does the arm that gets caught in a newel post twist? How does someone swing if they’ve been hung and left for days? I have a three foot tall Sylvester stuffed toy that I use for these things. Dollhouses that I can set up for crime and look through the tiny furniture or windows, to see what a potential witness would or what the person who would be breaking in be able to view. Because, let’s be honest, a cop that has no crime to investigate is pointless.
The cool aspect of my research is all over my house. A DIY desk that has homemade generator parts on it. Containers I have chosen for my kitchen, to keep out mice and insects. This was a massive research project for A World of Novo. And it changed how I live. I walk into my kitchen now and see jars that Elizabet would see or Bryn would use. I know how to make beer or vodka, even though I’ve never actually fully done either. I know how to make a clock and my hand tools are all over the house. It’s the other reason, other than my pets, that I don’t have normal, traditional rooms. I have workstations. Where I quilt or see how to use a fish tank to hydroponically grow food. How I’ve been able to deal with the erosion and soil problems around my house with composting.
My sister sometimes “walks” into these simulations. It can be quite humorous. When I was shooting bow, retraining myself on how to use substandard equipment in a crouched position, the top tip would bang into the wall. While she was safely in her own half of our duplex, the noise echoed throughout the entire building. I still giggle at the conversation we had afterwards.
So, while I write, and experiment, and set up scenarios, it’s also what I remain open to. The stories. Experiences. Life.