Once upon a time I use to write.
I wrote letters to people my own age in foreign countries. I wrote letters to relatives in other states. I wrote journal entry after journal entry. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
I wrote to make the day better, or get through a day I thought would never end. I wrote because I was happy, or mad, or sad, or because I just didn’t understand. Writing made sense. Writing made the world make sense.
Then….I stopped writing. I lost my love of words, and books, and poetry, and…lost a piece of myself in the noise of the world. That never ending noise of be this, do this, act this way, talk this way, use this product, believe this belief, dress this way, do your hair this way, this matters but not this… the endless noise of mindlessness.
It hit me when I was young. I saw it first in speech class. The teacher telling me I’d never be a writer because I couldn’t stand before a crowd of rambunctious teenagers and speak. What writing had to do with public speaking I’ve yet to reconcile in logic. I still have a lot to learn about writing, and public speaking, but neither have ever stopped me from writing.
Depression. Now that has stopped me from writing. It has stopped me from so much. Enslaved my mind and body in endless darkness, while setting my imagination in flight with what could be…if only…and then crushing it deeper with fear and dread. You raise your head, gasp for air, only to find a depth of despair you never knew existed.
And still, I write…
Not often. Not like I use to. Maybe a note. Maybe a scribble. But I write. No matter the darkness within me. No matter how deep the hopelessness drags me. I fight, and write, and trudge on.
They have a name for what ails me. They always have a name. Bi-polar 2. What a name… Why name it such a boring thing? Bi-polar 2. All I can think is Polar Express, but I expect no Christmas train comes with this disastrous label. No bells and whistles, but maybe… demons and broken angel wings. I’m sure I’ve seen both in my darkest hours.
And still, I write….
There are nights…like tonight… I question the sanity of it all. Why do we all fight so hard for our labels? I am a certifiably eclectic, sometimes erratic, frayed walking catastrophe. I’ll proudly wear that label. It gets to the heart of who I am. No other sociologically acceptable label does. Yet so many will fight for the label society hands them. There in lies true madness.
And still, I write….
I am finding my missing link. The part of me who wrote for the love of writing. I see her in the distance. She waves now and then. I think she misses me as much as I miss her.
And so I will write…
I will write the story as the story reveals itself. I will write this moment, because this moment is precious. I will write my ups, and downs. Even when the downs out number the ups. I will write my hero’s, for they are many, and are worthy of being immortalized. I will write the truth within my soul, even at its darkest.
Because, I will write…
No matter where the words shall lead me. They are the one absolute I can trust in a world of ever changing rules, and labels. Even in silence there are words. Silence screams, and darkness listens. I find comfort and fear in both. Knowing this, I thank whatever gods may be…for my unconquerable soul. I AM the master of my fate…. and I will write!
InvictusBy William Ernest HenleyOut of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate,I am the captain of my soul.