There are lots of reasons why I write. Lots.
But I’ll tell you a “secret.”
There are things in life I’m passionate about. And the number of them has significantly decreased over the years. This is normal. Happy to say that. VERY happy to say that.
I think one of the best “pair” of changes, directly related though 2 decades apart, was accepting the changes I decided on in therapy as whole.
I state that my ex and I fought a lot. We did. It’s why I accept my half of our relationship not working. I stayed in it too long. He may have been ____, but I chose to stay. And I don’t consider that as me calling myself an idiot or a survivor or anything like that. I called him on his shit all the time. That was both me standing up for myself and me not walking away when I should have. I accepted less and less as normal. I gave up on a lot of personal choices.
I think what frustrates me the most as a person is speech.
When I speak, a lot of people have a hard time understanding me. I state… well, not facts, as they are my impressions of what I consider to be facts. To me, it is what it is. Good, bad, healthy, unhealthy. I’m pretty direct. Over the years, I’ve learned that the personality some would call “thug” or “raw” doesn’t suit me. I prefer cushioned honesty.
I’ve also let go of a lot of things that used to get under my skin. I don’t let them bother me. Sort of like a brick wall inside.
And that question of “what do you want to be when you grow up?” That one used to drive me nuts. Like a blank slate inside.
For me, speech with others can be… difficult. If I hear someone say, all the time, “I need better people in my life” or “I want ____,” well, in my mind, DO it. Do what it takes to get there.
A lot of my frustration comes from people who think they are being polite when, really, they are putting the onus on the other person. I know of people who have to ask questions before they can tell me what they want from me. It becomes a tug-of-war. My point is, good or bad, just get to the point. I wind up getting to the point where I fall back into that “raw” state, where my life becomes a task list and I wind up treating EVERYTHING like it, because it’s too bloody irritating and I shut down. To me, that’s like another ex I had. One who, from his own insecurity (not a stalker), had to follow me EVERYWHERE. Before school, after every class, call me when he got home, after dinner, before bed. When we were together, in the same space, even to the bathroom door. He was so happy with our relationship, and that he had someone in his life that did give a crap about him, he had no clue how smothering he was becoming.
I found out I’m that way with subject matter. Fields of study. Where my brain says- okay enough. Why I’ve never been able to answer that “what do I want to be” question.
The therapy reasons why may be plentiful. But I’m happy to say that those have decreased. Significantly.
I’m able to be curious and learn. Free-style learn. As in depth or as shallow as I wish.
It’s also my way of making those magic moments. A cool image in my head of a flopping fish. Or what would a kayak look if it was lodged in a tree? What does old cloth smell like?
My sense of humor is rather simple. Or inane. Or on the twisted side. Most of it comes from my mother. Her joy. Watching her laugh at our cat deliberately knocking things over. She loved to enjoy other’s excitement or enjoyment, and it didn’t matter very much what the source was.
I remember a day when we both played hooky. Her from work, me from school. It was after her knee shattered. My own legs were messed up, still, years after having been straightened. We were both in pain. One morning, she looked at me and said (and this is the only time this happened), “The gimp patrol should have a day off.” We drove around for a couple of hours. Wound up at a park. Something my immediate family did on weekends. Mom and I both had canes at the time. Eventually, we came to a bench, and without speaking, we sat and watched the squirrels run around. It was one of those days, where neither she nor I could look at each other without bursting out laughing, because one of those little buggers had found a twinkie and there was a massive, five-way free-for-all amongst blobs of bobbing grey and one streak of yellow.
See? That is a story. One of my stories. A day of laughter and amusement over something simple, between mother and daughter.
Would most enjoy that? Probably not. Yet another animal story.
So what? It’s something I love and cherish. For what it was and what it wasn’t.
I think those are the bubbles between people.
When I write, that is, in essence, what I try to create between characters, in one form or another. Or between a character and a place. My own life is rich with those stories, good or bad, and I don’t step away from them being inside me or making up who I am. It’s what I remain open to. What I also connect with in books that I read.
So while I do work out the drama of unresolved conflicts, it’s also that acceptance of accepting. To uncomplicate. To be able to turn to someone I care about and say- hey. That’s the real passion inside me. And not all the ins and outs. What my inner light is about.