I write scores of things. I write scripts and lists and short stories and papers and poems and dialogue and blog posts and tweets and a truckload of other things. I love writing. I write so often that I get hand cramps. I have filled many spiral notebooks and have created countless (not literally, but it is provocative) Word documents.
Why do I write so much? Why, that’s a great question unidentified non-reader of these posts. I have to. You see, I have a very troubling life. Not because I’ve not been privileged or because I have had a terribly troubled home life. I suffer from a bountiful bevy of mental and emotional issues. They have slain my self-esteem, skewed my perception of social cues, and, some days, locked me up entirely to such a point that I am totally unable to function beyond basic breathing and moving.
Recently, (the past few years) I stopped reading and writing. I was in a relationship with a girl who found it a waste of time and I, like a big dumb goof, stopped. In high school, if I was reading, people criticized me for what I was reading. It wasn’t what I was supposed to be reading. I stopped entirely for awhile. Then, on Veteran’s Day, I read a small pamphlet of stories that were written by veterans. Everything jumped off the pages and surrounded me. I rediscovered the sensation that seduced me into reading all those years ago. I started devouring books, but I still wasn’t writing (which was the point of this blog post, get your act together me).
It was a slow process. Occasional journaling, especially after my last relationship ended, got me back into the swing of things. Eventually, I started scrawling with more passion than ever.
I do that way more than I really want to.
I was having another depressive episode and didn’t know what to do. “I can’t drink . I can’t have one night stands. I can’t drive. I can’t yell. My asthma makes it hard to run. I can’t spend money. I can’t audition for shows. I can’t sing. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t do a single goddamn thing to relieve stress,” were a small amount of the things I was telling myself.
Then it hit me. I’ll write my way out.
That’s the main point of the song “Hurricane” (my favorite song It is what Alexander Hamilton did. I started crying because the song made so much more sense now. I started writing furiously. I started blogging (even though no one is reading it) furiously. Eventually, everything else started to fall into place. Even though my life is a storm, a hurricane if you will, I can calm it by writing down everything I see.
I’m writing my way out.