It’s been four months since I’ve posted on my blog. Seems I fell head first into some kind of weird twilight zone slump. I have been privy to writers block through the years, however, I always attributed it to not having enough drama in my life. The more drama, the more writing, which creates more drama, thus more writing. It’s a beautiful, vicious cycle. There has been no lack of drama in the past nine months of my life, but there has been a serious lack of writing. I’ve pondered and wondered and speculated and then just plain given up on trying to figure it out. I’ve always worked my way through my life issues by writing about them and then discarding them into neat little boxes that sit on dusty shelves like memories of the worst of times. There is a small shelf way in the back with tangles of cobwebs that hold the little boxes of good memories. I don’t ever open them up, as they are way to precious to let back out of the box.
In the past 5 months I’ve moved, come to terms with my definition of motherhood (in understanding the empty nest syndrome), reconnected with an old friend that was once the love of my life only to lose him again, lost a dear friend, gained many new friends who don’t really know the depth of my insanity, and experienced the fear of losing a child (thanks be that he’s okay). I have doubted myself on all levels, dealt with extreme loneliness, decided to move to a new place half a dozen times, and were it not for my fear of death, bordered on wanting to check out a few times. I’ve had too much time to think, and my mind never stops spinning from one vortex into another. I laughed my way through the imminent Rapture, only to wonder,what if? I’ve questioned my abandonment of an ingrained belief system that never really gave me comfort. I wondered why, as capable and wiling as I am to love, there is no one to receive it. I’ve given up a bad habit,(smoking), only to have it rob me of the comfortable skin I lived in. I loathe my reflection, but my lungs are happy. My blood pressure issue is resolved and I don’t live in the brink of a stroke every day. I’ve been able to walk away from my 40 hour a week yoke and dedicate all of my time not working on my Grad degree to writing. Though I’m not sure if this is a good or bad thing, I’ve worked my way through menopause without hormone replacement therapy, and psychotic mood swings.
So, in light of all of these changes and life alterations, there should be at least 4 or 5 new books on my shelf. Alas, that is not so. I’m crawling through the days, waiting for the nights, writhing in nightmarish dreams that give me relief from the banal circumstances I find myself in, and each morning I wake up wondering if I’ve broken out of the placental sack of my self imposed imprisonment. Each morning I gaze at the empty space on the other side of my bed and wonder if I will find my creative self in dead repose, mocking me.
Now, just a few days past the life altering shift that took place 9 months ago (my hospitalization for high blood pressure), I seem to have found some answers to questions that have been causing the turbulence in my brain. With all of these life experiences and no words on paper to stuff into little boxes, I wear them like a post apocalyptic pelt that keeps me bound to doubt. Nine months, the gestation of a human life…nine months, when the body changes to accommodate that life…nine months, the time it takes to push that new life into the world…nine months, and this was the morning I woke up and found my creative self lying in repose next to me with open arms…
Stay tuned…
