Author: Sloan

Why I Quit Writing

/ Sloan / 2 Comments

I remember my first Diary. Stereotypically, it was pink, it had a lock with a cheap key that wouldn’t have stood a chance of protecting my words if a predator had thought he needed to read my 9 year old self’s deepest, darkest secrets. Good thing my older brother couldn’t give two shits about me, his 11 year old life was way more interesting then whatever I was printing in large, careful letters across the pages, pages that were trimmed with pink hearts and shooting stars.

I’ve always loved writing, whether is was in a journal or making up stories and books with friends at school, writing was always “my thing”. I’ve had a blog going on and off since 2011–more off than on the last year, I’ve guest blogged, I’ve written articles for multiple print and web magazines, I loved it and through it all I’ve kept a journal. I’m the girl that has a notebook that travels with her from purse, to backpack, to a different purse, always having it with me.

Recently my Moleskine hasn’t been being used for the usual venting I’ve always done. It’s no longer a one sided friend, the one who is always on my side when there’s a disagreement, it was like the tennis ball server that throws the perfect serve each time for me to hit back, no judgment, no critique. My journal was my confidant and ally. Generally, for the past 20 years I’ve had a journal with me to write down when I’m angry at myself, about the boy I like, the confusion that comes with being 15, 18, 22, 25, and now 30 looming in another year. I’d find that when I wasn’t suffering at my normal level of depression, (which is a highly functioning person on the outside, but slowly dying and self-hating on the inside), I wasn’t writing.

When I was happy(er) than normal, my journal stayed buried in the bottom of my bag. When my boyfriend and I started having trouble, and I felt my friends were sick of me talking about it, I found my old trusted friend, pulled out a pen and wrote the date–a date that was over two months after the last entry. I started writing, I vomited words and expected no judgment or advice, unlike what I was getting from people who didn’t understand how I was feeling.

I was back there. Every day. After a few month happy hiatus I was back, writing about the potential breakup, about my endless search for the perfect career, how I do everything right yet can’t lose the weight, about my inappropriate crush on an inappropriate person, how I should be running more, how I should visit my Grandparents in Michigan, how broke I am, how badly I miss living in the mountains. Then I would close the journal, tuck this newly opened can of worms in my bag and carry on with my day.

Usually, by the end of the day my shoulders are scrunched up by my ears, my butt cheeks are clenched and my head would hurt because of all the thoughts swimming around in there. So I’d again, pull out ol’ trusty journal and write more things down. Complain and nit pick about my body hurting, my manager at work, about something my boyfriend was doing that annoyed me, about how I just . can’t . get . better–I’m so sad, all the damn time.

Scrolling through my Facebook feed one day, someone posted an article about the idea of “Thankfulness” So in this bout of depression, this hole that I was buried deep into, I decided to start my day listing three things I’m thankful for; no matter how big or small. Most were just little stupid things: Coffee, my bike (my main mode of transportation in the summer,) my boyfriend and how he puts up with all of my bullshit.

After–not too long, my lists started to repeat themselves, it turns out I’m REALLY thankful for coffee. Which was fine…at first. Then I started to notice a pattern in my writing after. I noticed that I would just start complaining again. I’d vent about everything else that wasn’t on my list of three. I’d cry when writing about my recent break up, I’d be thankful for one specific friend but be really sad that my other friend and I are drifting apart, or that I just don’t really have a lot of friends here. I’d be thankful for the Starbucks I was sipping, but be frustrated with my dwindling bank account. I started to think that my Moleskine and I were making things worse! So I stopped.

I pretty much quit writing altogether. My blog had suffered before, but now it’s basically non-existent. I decided on the excuse that I needed an audience and being single, not in a class, not blogging and not part of a writing community, an audience is something hard to come by. I don’t know if this has helped, I’m not sure if I’m happy(er), less complain-y, less focused on the negative or if maybe I quit writing because I just got lazy. But I’m not longer drawing attention to it all every single day. Re-reading it, re-obsessing over it.

Do I still carry a Moleskine journal around with me? Yes. Two actually. One for notes at work and one in the hopes of writing something. Do I miss ‘writing’ daily. Hell yes. Do I miss complaining? Yeah–I do, but I truly think that right now I’m better off without it, better focusing on me and not dwelling on the crazy swirling in my head. They say that focusing on the ‘now’ is a step towards happiness, and for me the now doesn’t include obsessing and writing down my obsessions to forever haunt me in a little bound book. And for right now, I’m okay with that.

You Yell In Your Head A Lot

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That day at work, the one that is so mind numbingly boring where you can’t even remember what you talk about. You sit and stare, you cross and un-cross your legs to keep your ankles from going numb. That day where you know you’re not going to want to go home right away so you make plans with an old friend, you find a new bar and you plant your ass on a stool for a few beers and talk.

You talk and the shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes makes you realize that, in this moment, your voice is unrecognizable. You’re half way through your first 8% beer and you realize the bar now looks blurry, only because you’re looking through saltwater and your friend pats your right shoulder.

Looking down, your left knee is supported by the bar while your right ankle crosses over it, you look over and your bearded friend, a friend from years ago, that is only ten years younger that your father, and his legs are crossed the same way.

For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been like a strong, proud, black woman. He says, lifting his hand off your shoulder, complimenting you. He begins to share his stories about his relationship, because you decide to get another beer and change the subject to him. You want to stop looking through saltwater and getting the focus off you will help that.

The bar fills up as you realize the coffee stout you ordered is actually good. After years of loving coffee and loving beer and hating the two combined, this brewery does it–it goes down easy, lights you up with a buzz and mellows you out with a different buzz. The conversation continues onto beers, breweries, brewers and bars.

He compartmentalizes your life by drawing circles and squares on the bar top with his fingers, connecting them with imaginary lines and arrows, showing how they all really are connected–see, if things are good here, they have the potential to be better HERE, he taps hard on the upper right circle,

Meanwhile, you use your thumbnail to pick the coaster and to avoid eye contact, you’ve been refused coaster use in bars you regulared at in the past but the tender doesn’t notice you tonight. You blink back, close your eyes a moment and return to making scraps that he’ll later have to clean up and throw away–you’ve worked at bars and know how annoying it is to clean up other peoples messes.

The four compartments are all different, yet work together, if you create balance, you equal a happy, healthy life. Who can juggle balance? Where does this come from? WHERE, HOW?! You yell in your head, you yell in your head a lot.

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Breathe in the Sun

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Each time I water my garden it is hot. The plants are thirsty and the soil is dry, they drink in the waterfall and beg me for more, I am a bad plant Mom but I try harder to be better each day–each day I give them more and each day I look forward to putting my hand under the cascading flow, closing my eyes and wishing that the stream was flowing over me. I think, What a lovely shower this would be, let’s go jump into a river and float away for a few days, and then each shower I take in my small Chicago apartment I try to recreate the refreshing chill I pour out of the watering pal. Sometimes a success, sometimes it’s not quite right. When I leave the garden it is beautiful, full and happy. I whisper loving words and tell each plant they are special.

My soap smells like citrus petals, I think, what are citrus petals? I question. As I shave my legs dirt falls from my skin, the dirt from the city accumulates on my body as I ride my bike miles each day. The citrus petals clean my skin, the razor makes it smooth and the refreshing waterfall rinses me off. I suppose the citrus petals clean me of other dirt too. The dirt of a long day, the dirt of hours and hours of trying and working and thinking and feeling, of self talk and continuous motivation that seemingly goes nowhere –the moment under my waterfall clears me of everything. Time transcends and responsibility falls to the wayside. Shaving my legs I notice my amber skin to my ankles, a tan line and white feet, amber to mid thigh and then a harsh line where cloth falls when I am in the sun. I notice scars that will not go away and curves that I have not quite come to accept yet. The waterfall’s magical effects wash down with the drain as I wrap myself in a towel.

In my garden I dig my hands in the dirt to pull weeds and plant new vegetables. The spade is broken but I don’t mind–the Earth, she speaks to me through my hands and in my body, the soil harbors life, sustains it and, well, it makes me dirty. A different dirty than the dirt on my legs from the city. This is a dirty of life, of energy, of sunshine and of love. The dirt gets stuck under my finger nails and stays there as a reminder that beauty is there in the middle of a dirty city. A reminder that working with my hands brings me joy and fills a passion I didn’t know I had.

Another stream I let fall from the pal brings another whoosh of refreshment to my hands as I breathe in the sun.