This blog saved my life.
Not in a suicide prevention way, well not really, although my creativity was dying a slow, self-induced death, but in a letting in the light kind of way.
For many, many years, I denied my creative urges. There was never enough time to take that adult ballet class or break out a blank canvas; I was too embarrassed to sing karaoke; too tired to write poetry; to emotionally drained to flesh out my screenplay idea. And…well, you get the idea.
I recall visiting a hypnotherapist some time ago, who told me most seriously that all this creative suppression was not good for me. Her eyes widened concernedly as she grasped my hand and told me to let it out. Just let it out.
But I didn’t.
Oh I dabbled. I loved planning get-togethers and parties and that kind of thing. I attended some writer’s conferences, added to my manuscript in progress, penned a poem for The Rock here and there. But I didn’t embrace being creative the way I should, the way I needed to, and so I atrophied. I became bitter and envious of other writers, I grew frustrated and snappy, I strained against the rope I’d tied across myself.
Then, I resigned. I floated through days in a dream, not paying attention, not caring.
And I know. Really. I’m aware I have a family who loves me and who I love back. Being a mother and a wife are major parts of my identity. But they’re not everything. There’s a flap yet unfolded before I’m to be whole. I glued that flap further shut with my apathy and my anger and my not doing and soon, the closure spread to my other parts.
So I felt myself dying. A light snuffed out, only to occasionally sputter back on.
Then one day last November, right around my 39th birthday, I decided to shed my darkness. Whether or not I was afraid, whether or not I’d fail, just whether or not. Here I come.
So I registered a domain, made a design decision, and started writing regularly. I’d had a blog before — for 7 years in fact, but like me, it’d grown bitter and apathetic.
And I know. Really. It’s just a blog. But it’s allowed me to express myself. To unfold. In 15 minutes here, 20 minutes there, I can remember who I am, just by writing a bit of myself and letting it fly. Sure, it doesn’t replace my other writerly pursuits, but rather is one of them. What that’s done for me can’t be measured. I’ve learned to love to write again, to trust my voice more, to share, to come undone, to goof, to connect, to shed, to shed, to shed, to bloom.
There’s more. My book, for instance. The one I’m excited to be writing again. I credit my blog for giving that pleasure back to me. And I thank you for listening and supporting and helping me save my life.
So sometimes I think it’s all fairy dust, just fairy dust, these dreams, these words. But that’s OK. Because I’m believing again. And there’s something magical in that.