Lyena's
Journal
3.5.2004
I’ve been really resistant to writing. Plenty of things have happened in the last month or so to warrant a little sharing, plenty of thoughts and insights and events. And as each one has happened I’ve thought, "Yes, I should write about this." But the thought has been fleeting, or has resurfaced once or twice for a last attempt and then fled, going the way of every other thing I think I should be doing.
I thought at first that I was just lazy -- didn’t feel like it, would rather do something else or, better yet, nothing at all. Then I thought I was depressed, unable to get motivated to do anything. But neither of those seems to be true. There are plenty of things I feel like doing and I’m extremely motivated in other regards. So what then?
Laundry was my first clue. I don’t actually mind doing laundry but when I catch myself loving it, I know something’s wrong. Last week, I did a load of laundry everyday. At first, I just felt proud of myself. Burning through my laundry pile made me feel like I was accomplishing something really remarkable. But one night, three or four loads down, I caught myself planning which load I would do the next day and where I would hang the pants that don’t go in the dryer and which day would be good to do all my hand-washing. And it suddenly hit me. Somewhere between load 2 and load 4 I’d crossed the line. No longer was I incarnating the fabulously organized Mother Homemaker. Instead, I’d moved over to the Supreme Procrastinator. From there, it didn’t take long to figure out what all I was putting off in favor of perfectly bleached socks and color-coded underwear.
As it turns out, writing isn’t the only thing I’ve been avoiding but it’s probably the most important thing. It became clear long ago that my survival depends on expressing my experience, if only to myself, and writing is the best way for me to do that. But it’s also a terrifying way. In order to be effective, I have to write the truth. It doesn’t do me any good to tell some sugar-coated tale of my life with a catastrophic injury. There are some pretty extraordinary moments in this nightmare but much of the time, it’s just a nightmare. And I’m pretty confused, about my feelings, about what I’m actually experiencing, and what it all might mean. Writing about it can be very messy.
But even scarier, there’s sharing it. It’s one thing to be messy in the privacy of my own mind. It’s quite another to allow other people into the room. This is an ugly place sometimes. I have ugly feelings and ugly things to say. And I’m always hesitant to say them here. I feel a lot of pressure to offer the remarkable side, the insightful side, the hopeful and cheerful and inspiring side. But, alone, those sides are less than the truth. And less than the truth doesn’t serve so well.
If I look, now, inside myself for the truth of what I’m saying, I can say I’m afraid: afraid that someone will mistake my truth as something more than momentary; afraid that if I express my doubt, my supporters will lose their faith in my recovery; afraid that if I reveal my imperfections, all will abandon this companionship. And though none of those things will kill me, they all seem pretty bad.
But the fact is, I don’t want to do this if I can’t tell the truth. And nearly every time I have, someone has said "Thank you." So, I guess I’m going to take my chances, both with myself and with everyone else. I’ve already fallen 15 feet out of a tree. How much worse could it be?
Lyena | 00:06