Writing

I scribble down lines. And pause, stuck; I flip through my thesaurus, the thick one Grandma gave me in an unsuccessful attempt to lessen my excessive use of curse words. I type and then edit and spell-check and edit again. Slowly lines become stanzas.1

Hollow 2

tired, worn, heavy, hot and sticky,3

i collapse4

sinking into the lime green couch
sinking into the solitude
of an empty apartment5

i hit the play button,
Simon and Garfunkel drown out
the still, stifling silence6

"but i’m alright, i’m alright
i’m just weary to my bones"7

dusk settles in around me
and i want you here
to sit quietly
and watch me doze8

i am so weary9

and you
are gone 10

More than an hour spent agonizing over 73 words and still unsatisfied with the product, I turn my attention to homework left over from last semester. I grab a handful of dollar-store candy from the kitchen, comfort food to satisfy the ache in my chest, not my stomach; the early summer humidity robs me of my already meager appetite as well as what little energy I have. I eat the sticky sour candy and stretch out languidly on the couch, a book in hand. I leaf through the pages, searching for an essay I should have read weeks ago, "How to Become a Writer" by Lorrie Moore.11

As I scan the index, my mind drifts to my best friend. We fought over the weekend, the first time in six years. We of course argued about numerous issues, her boyfriend, my tendency to withdraw, her avoidance of, well, everything. After a few unkind words and a lot of talking in circles, we apologized. We forgave and forgot. But not really. Most importantly, the whole thing started with me accusing her of always being busy; she responded by saying I was always depressed and she couldn’t handle it. Stalemate.12

I sigh discontentedly, and get up to open a window. The room grows dim and my limbs tingle. I wait for my vision to clear and kneel next to the window, ignoring my blood sugar or blood pressure or iron or whatever the doctors decide I don’t have enough of next time I complain about the fainting and dizziness. I know, I know I should eat better it’s just that often taking care of myself doesn’t seem worth the effort. Blinking the haze away, I see my reflection in the darkened glass, so pale, and my eyes, dark and tired. After forcing the old window up, I prop it open with a thin piece of wood. A faint breeze stirs my uncombed hair and the brightly colored Tibetan prayer flags hanging over head. I turn up the radio, James Taylor’s "Fire and Rain," to drown out the rattle of passing pick-up trucks and retreat to the couch, determined to focus.13

I read several paragraphs. Moore says "you have a calling, an urge, a delusion, an unfortunate bad habit," and I understand. Sometimes I love writing and sometimes I hate it, but I don’t like it. It is not fun and it’s not easy. When I am writing, the subject consumes me; I think of nothing else. I forget to eat and shower and sleep. I put all of myself into my writing and it’s exhausting. Depending on the topic, writing can be very painful and perhaps, given my barely stable frame of mind, even dangerous. But I can’t stop. Writing is not a hobby or an occupation; it’s a compulsion. I carry pens and a notebook everywhere, terrified of forgetting some metaphor or theme. I write in bars and churches and classes. And then I scrutinize my work for days, weeks, months, trying desperately to perfect it, wanting to feel as though it is finished, complete. Yes, I understand, and for once I am interested in my assigned reading. 14

Then I make the mistake of moving my head. Ow. My attention shifts. The bumps from my brother’s temper are still slightly swollen and sore. "Is your head ok?" he asked after two punches above my right temple, "oh yeah, your head has never been ok, crazy bitch." Funny, he was one of my best friends too.15

I feel small. I need to call someone and talk, but I don’t have a phone, so I walk to the kitchen instead. I open the fridge and take out the white bottle of Malibu a friend left for safe keeping. I break the seal and fill a shot glass to the rim, resolving to pay my friend back later. The rum burns my throat. I pour another shot and swallow it, washing down thoughts and emotions I’d rather not deal with.16

I return to the living room and finish reading the assigned essay. I move to my desk and read my half finished personal reflection "Why I Write," saved on my laptop. It’s ridiculously overdue, damn writer’s block. Frustrated, I long for a cigarette, how pathetically stereotypical. I want to be at the run-down laundromat across the lot, smoking a Marb Red in a homemade pop-bottle bong. I want to smoke till I'm sick, but I’m stuck here instead, trying to write, in a smoke-free building. Uncertain of where to go next with the essay, I check my inbox. Empty. I go back to the kitchen, and drink two more shots, hoping the liquor didn’t cost too much. I need to develop better coping skills. The alcohol does little to calm my mind. It hurts my nearly empty stomach and makes the heat even more unbearable. I slip my bra off under my tank-top and throw it towards the bedroom. I put my hair up, haphazardly, off my neck and back. I unplug the laptop and drag it across the room to the open bay window. I hike my skirt up, no one is here to see all my scars, and sit on the carpet. Finally comfortable, I reread my unfinished essay. 17

Realizing my lack of progress, I drum my fingers on my knee and look around in exasperation. A pair of orange handled scissors are lying on the floor next to a societal angst collage, magazine clippings resting unglued on blank paper. I pick up the scissors and watch the light glint off of the stainless steel. So tempting. I test the sharpness of the blades with my thumb, pause, deliberating, and toss the scissors out of reach. Still unable to concentrate, I wander into the bedroom and rub cocoa butter on my scars in a feeble attempt to make them fade faster. White is more acceptable, less visible than bright purple; make-up only hides so much.18

Before exiting the room I pause at the bed-side table; did I take my medication today? Yes, I think so; sometimes I forget, two in the morning, one at night; I hope so. Still unsure, I trudge back to living room and stare at the computer screen, waiting for my thoughts to slow down. I make a few small corrections, save the incomplete essay and leave it undone. I open a new word document and hunch over the laptop and type up the night, hoping to clear all the noise and clutter from my head. I write down every last detail I can remember and then edit and spell-check and edit again. Drained, I lean back and listen to the unnerving sound of birds chirping to the rising sun. This is ridiculous. It is 5:31am.19

The birds and my thoughts are interrupted by The Verve Pipe singing, "We've tried to wash our hands of all of this. We never talk of our lacking relationships and how we’re guilt stricken sobbing with our heads on the floor. We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip…" Yes. That is why I write. There is so much distance in my relationships; I withdraw into the safety of solitude. Writing feels safer than talking; I write everything I can’t ever say. I don't want to be a downer. I don't want to depress my friends. It's better to confess my sins to a piece of paper; I feel less guilty. What a contradiction to reveal all that I try so hard to hide, but connecting is a basic human need. In another reading for class, an excerpt from "Writing Down the Bones," Natalie Goldberg says, "writing is not just writing. It is also having a relationship." I write because I hope that someone, anyone will understand what I am silently screaming, and that somewhere someone like me will read what I write and take comfort in knowing they are not alone.20