What writing means to me

[I just read a wonderful post by Susan Brooks on her blog Parsifal's Horse, which recounts her experience applying to the AROHO Gift of Freedom Grant. Inspired by her, I decided to post one of the essays I wrote for my own application]

"There are many ways of breaking a heart. Stories were full of hearts being broken by love, but what really broke a heart was taking away its dream – whatever that dream might be." - Pearl S. Buck

If I stop for a moment and think back to the time that I almost gave up on my dream of becoming a full-time writer a strange reaction happens in my body.

I am doing that now because I want to describe exactly how it feels like. There is a rock in my stomach. It is hot and it pulsates awkwardly. Not a smooth, positive vibration, like when someone applies reiki to you. It jiggles around uneasily and climbs up slowly until it reaches the heart. My chest feels taught, stretched from the inside out by fear.

I remember that feeling now. I was sixteen, dating a mysterious guy who only stopped by on Saturdays. I never knew for sure if was coming to see and the half hour void before his arrival was like that. My teenage mind made the anguish that took over me mean anything between lateness and never seeing the boy again. I didn't understand it at that point, but what I was really afraid of was not of losing him – I was afraid of somehow losing my identity. Or better: facing my true self and not liking it one bit. I needed someone to fill in for the love I thought lacked for myself, and to be “alone” meant being forced to look at myself and face disappointment. As most teenagers, I wanted someone to reassure me I was lovable no matter what.

Writing is a way of dealing with and expressing my own identity. If I am sad, I write. If I am happy, I write. If someone wants my opinion on an issue, it is easier for me to write about it than to say it. In fact, the first time I actually did an essay of sorts it was about an opinion. I was six or seven years old and wrote out a full page entitled “The World”, which described my views on the subject. I then eagerly showed it to my cousin, who lived with us at the time and was seven years older than myself. She said it was stupid.

I wish I could read that essay again and be able to see the world as the child I was then. It took me a while to begin writing on my own again, which only happened when I started a diary about five years later. Nevertheless, I am always writing – even if sometimes 80% of it never gets down on paper – and this dates back to the time I couldn't formally write yet.

I continue the experiment. The feeling gets stronger and rises to that hollow space at the base of my neck, where the communication chakra is located. A ball of old yarn mysteriously appears there, covered with glue. It is another familiar feeling. In the eating disorder that has permeated most of my life, one of my “favorite” binging items has been cheese. However, due to my moderate form of lactose intolerance, it brings about a reaction in my lungs that produces mucus and lodges it right there, in that space. Yes, for most of my life I repeatedly tried to clog up my need to communicate through writing, and it took a long time to realize that. The six-year old in me, cowered by her older cousin's harsh words, didn't believe it was possible to be a successful writer.

Until quite recently the clogged up feeling in my throat would spread up to my head and cause a headache. My palms would become sweaty and my heart would even accelerate a bit. Yet as I go through this exercise now, I am happy to realize the fear of not being able to write no longer produces the same reaction as before. Yes, writing is still one of the most important things in my life. Yes, I still want to be a full time writer. Yes, I still want to release all of the words that have been kept in during all these years.

The difference now is that I know I can.