Crusher of Dreams

[float_on_alright]

I started “The Artist’s Way” Recovery program today. Who knows how this is going to go long term but I suppose I can always start over if I need to. One of the frustrating things is that I can’t read over the “morning pages” which I know are mostly word vomit anyway so it’s not that I want to read them. The thing is, I’d like to count them towards my word goals for the day but they’re to be handwritten, not typed, no one is to see them or read including me, so physically counting the words isn’t an option because there's too much risk of me reading them. Not re-reading your morning pages is part of battling your “Inner Censor” or, The Cruel Critic as I’m starting to think of mine. My inner voice is an asshole y’all. I mean, I always knew that but one of the assignments for this week was to write down what the inner voice came up with when you wrote out “I, (insert name here), am a brilliant prolific writer.” 

And dude? I’m a fucking asshole. One of the things from therapy was being nicer to myself and the truly terrifying part of seeing the things I’ve said about myself in my own head is that I used to be worse. I wish I could understand how I got so hateful towards myself. Like, okay kids were assholes to me and I always felt out of place and awkward, but I don’t think any of them were ever as mean as I was to myself. 

One of the things she recommends is searching for who might have given you these insecurities and fears. Like trace them back to their originators. And while I was picked on for being overweight, a nerd, weird, wearing unfashionable clothes, not understanding personal hygiene for a while (don’t all sixth graders go through this?), etcetera etcetera etecera, I cannot think of a single instance when someone told me my writing was bad or that I should give up. In fact, as I search through my memories to writing classes and workshops, I can’t remember anything but kindness, support, and encouragement. So what the fuck? Did I do this to myself? And if so, how did this happen? How, growing up with a father who still says “when are you gonna write that bestseller?” In a completely, “you can do it so you should do it already” way do I still think of my writing as worthless trash? How did all those supportive, kind words go so far astray?

I had a teacher in high school who drove me to and from the UNC Charlotte campus from the boonies of Rowan County every day for two weeks so that I could participate in a writing workshop. A workshop I remember fondly and still have the booklet with our work and the notecards the participants wrote for me (we all wrote something nice for each participant). That seem teacher essentially created a Creative Writing II class at the high school so I could keep taking a creative writing course. My college professor weren’t really any less supportive. My classmates were supportive. But I guess I spent too much time thinking I would never be able to write a poem half as amazing as any poem Jason Mott ever wrote (he wrote The Returned, which was as a TV series for a minute and yes, we went to college together and I was in several classes with him even though I was a couple of years behind him and he is amazing - as a writer, as a poet, and as a person). 

She talks about parents telling their kids to be “reasonable” but my dad told me to do my best and as long as I was happy I could be a (and this is a direct quote) “Redundant (unemployed) Siberian Shit-Shoveler from Sheffield” for all he cared. How amazing is that? My mother (so long as she continues to believe I’m straight, I guess, who knows what will happen if she ever figures out I’m definitely not that) thinks the sun shines out my ass and I could do anything I wanted including writing Christmas movies for the Hallmark Channel. 

They talk about mean teachers and while I was terrified of Mrs. Teague I don’t remember her ever being discouraging. I had one teacher who wouldn’t call me by my preferred name but her class was also the class that I first truly understood that I wanted to write a book one day (I was in the first grade - about 6 years old) and that’s one of my two clear memories from that class (the other was refusing to answer by my given name instead of my nickname - I wish I still had that spunk 6 year old me had - she was badass). So not her then. My 6th grade English teacher was also a creative writing teacher and she was phenomenal. She chose my essay as a winner so I could be the “Lady” of our medieval castle day. My 7th grade teacher let me stay after school and use his computer to write the story I was supposed to write for his class. It was only supposed to be about five pages, but it was 25 by the time I was done. He even let me turn it in late with no penalty because I was enthusiastic about the project. 

I mean seriously, I cannot think of a single villain in my pursuit of the creative except myself. 

And isn’t that just a bitch? I can’t be mean to myself about it when I’m supposed to be helping myself heal. I mean beating myself up about it will not do me any good. I wish I had someone to blame though. I wish there was someone I could point to and go “There! That’s it! That’s the moment I started telling myself I could never really write! And it is his/her fault.” It would be so nice to have an external person to blame. But I don’t. And so I’ll just have to find a way to 1) forgive myself and 2) encourage and be kind to myself. 

I see a lot more affirmations in my future.