There is a feeling after hitting send where my whole world crashes. My breathing quickens and my hands reach out for anything to wet my suddenly dry throat. A lump develops, making the rapid breathing hard.
Inside, my mind screams at me.
WHY WOULD YOU SEND THAT PIECE OF GARBAGE.
I don’t consider myself a very talented person. Drop the very, I don’t consider myself a talented person.
Most days, I sit at my computer writing and deleting; over and over again. I look at my friends with a gentle greenness. Proud of their accomplishments but wishing to have a sample size portion of the talents they consistently put on display.
I sit there, writing about my children. Somedays I hit send, spiraling me into panic attack. MESSAGE SENT displays across screen, triggering my mind to start racing down you’re not good enough Boulevard.
Just write. The rest falls into place.
When I started a site, the whispers flew through the wind, finding themselves back to me as insidious confidence ruiners.
‘He just started the site because nowhere would accept his work.’
I sat there, shaking, hitting publish after publish on Facebook. Site after site my work has been lucky enough to be graced upon, along with a little “Hey, fuck you” note attached.
Sisterwives, Long Awkward Pause, The Soap Box, Sammiches & Psych Meds, Good Men Project, Scary Mommy, Mom Babble, Mock Mom, guest post here, guest post there.
A spot as a contributor in a book titled Multiples Illuminated.
As my writing became more, what would be the best term? Visible? New murmurs filled the air.
‘He’s changed. ‘
‘He only cares about himself.’
‘These are easy sites to get on to.’
Again I found myself sitting there, shaking. The anger and hurt coagulated in a nice pool of self-doubt, spiraling me away from having fun with writing and towards thoughts of giving up, packing in, shipping out. It would have been well and okay enough. I am the first to admit my glaring commitment issues. I could move on from writing with the ease I moved on from other aspirations. I could leave it in the wind, dangling with whispers and overdue gym memberships. Pin it right up there in the “almosts” section of my life, right next to stand up comedy and guitar playing.
My self doubt and stubborn personality combine together to form a real nice silent agony, leaving me agitated and alone. My fears of inadequacy come together with a worry I might be viewed as having a pity party, pushing me further into self-imposed solitude.
I sit, allowing the hushed slights swirl around me, creating a vortex my confidence disappears into. The compliments don’t break through the nice barrier whispers have wrapped me in.
When I write, I don’t see talent. The whispers have assured me most do not see talent either.
Yet, there I am in my continued mortification. Writing and sending. Sitting and waiting for the whispers to circle and pick me apart. There are days I bow my head before extending my wrists, allowing myself to become their captive. I feel the tightness as they shackle and silence me, submitting myself to the thoughts of inadequacy and accepting them as myself.
I started a site for myself, not my friends. I have changed. I am different. I am not talented and these sites are easy to get on.
I submit to the loud silence; giving in to whispers on the wind that erode my self worth. Fighting back too exhausting for a tired and weary soul.
But, as much as my stubborn personality enjoys sitting in self-loathing, it also refuses to allow others the satisfaction of winning.
And while I may find contentment in my natural levels of self- doubt, I would never allow the words of others to bind me. For my glaring commitment issues also keep me vested in not being married to the insidious wagging tongues.
I tried so hard and got so far but because my punctuation lacked I fell so hard and when I appropriated they called my bluff but I’m still standing isn’t that enough because I never learned the grammar to succeed when others paid attention in english class I busied myself with sleep then I made a shit list apparently but oh well this is something I do and I only do for me since if you do it for others it turns out the daggers cut your back and you start to bleed and when you bleed sure people watch but they only applaud and give bravos until the blood constricts its flow for when you begin to heal they disappear like magic rabbits into thin air they apparate from hence they came they go again but that is neither here nor there and I made the list so none will publish me so why would I waste time on a period or comma because once you’re on a shit list if your content doesn’t matter then neither will your punctuation or grammar yet here I stand with a continued fuck you stance this is warrior one from my yoga dance with two middle fingers up and a back straight from being too long against a wall
Oh and maybe there is a place for a period there but I will leave it out because I don’t care this world doesn’t own me if I don’t let it bind and theres no chains to hold me or capitals to bold me I would rather sit in my content laden talent with my witty appropriation of popular pop culture and obscure movies then ever set foot in your halls for free and I would rather do away with the comma the period and fuck even the semi colon if it means it weeds out those people who read for that because they aren’t the readers I want they aren’t the readers I need for that stuff means nothing to me because what I do is I fucking bleed and when I bleed I prefer free speech I prefer no confines to hold on me for what are periods but constructs and ideologies run amuck that take my words and keep them stuck between two points so undeserving that is shit that unnerves me and I would rather have my words in prose then ever stick it in binding holds and I will banter on till cheeks are red and my lungs are out of breath and when I keel over panting there then maybe, just maybe, I will give in to the ideologies and I will lose my battle against the institutions and their constructs.
But though I may falter on my journey the steps I take further embolden me to complete this sojourn on my own terms I tried your way and it isn’t working for it takes my originality it thefts my constitution and fuck it just doesn’t feel right
for I was born to write the editors edit but i type type type and what comes out are pieces of me my heart and soul for you to see they ooze from daggers blood fills the street and if thats not enough then FUCK IT for I am here but I remember the journey and I remember my people and remember my learning and I choose to break the rules because the rules don’t check me better yet I don’t believe in the existence of things created before my own existence and better yet I refuse to acknowledge the mere existence of anything other than words being a sentence and if you don’t know when to pause and breathe then I am sorry you don’t know enough about writing to realize the important thing is getting the words to appear on screen and editors will edit and you can proofread add your own grammar you fucking nazi because my meaning is clear enough
my meaning is, I don’t give; a fuck.