Stop WritingOver two weeks ago a friend told me he did not like my post. He did like reading what was going on in my life. Strangely he is the same person that has given me license to write again, but stranger still was my reaction. Not once did he tell me not to write, but I jump back to a seven-year old girl in pig tales being called into Mother Superior’s office (yes they still had those in the late 70s-early 80s) for writing.
I was not a bad child. On the contrary, my mother will often tell you how she wished I would have stayed that age and laments that I did not. Sort of the way kitten owners become disillusioned when they now have a cat, as if they did not know it would happen. So being called to the Principal/Mother Superior’s office was a devasting moment. She sat me down because my second grade handwriting teacher was very disturbed with my constant lack of respect. Each day we were given a sentence heavy with the letter of the day to write. And we would write the same sentence 10 times or more. It was droll. It was awful. It needed a spark, so I began creating my own sentences making sure they were weighed down with the letter of the day. She had warned me against my dalliances, but this day R had come to Room 5 on the first floor of St.Anthony’s elementary school, what was I to do? I wrote “Renea ran over to play Red Robin, but Robert refused to let her in.” and that was not what I was supposed to write. I at the time could not understand this need for conformity. But held my head down, apologized and redid the assignment. I still say, give me a break lady I was seven and you got your Rs, but I digress. I quickly learned that my writing caused trouble.
I learned that when my mother became angry with me when she found stories I had been working on at 14 and threw them away while calling me names and telling me I was going to hell. I was 14. I was writing about how much I loved Wham! and desperately wanted to do the infamously gay George Michael. You can see Hell really was the only place for me. . . .
I learned this when Edward begged to see my poems. I showed him and then he disappeared telling me that I was too deep. They were too much to process, he needed time. In the end, I was simply hard to deal with.
I learned this getting out of a car and being told I had a revisionist telling of history, by a man who rarely remembers his nights.
I learned this when the peacock pranced around in violent stomps with bleeding caws asking why anyone would care about my insignificance. He certainly did not.
And then it occurs maybe they are all right. Maybe.
But I don’t want any of them to be. And he only said it hurt him to read these things, but he never said stop writing. Yet I did. And I don’t want to stop writing. When I do my breathing becomes strained and my bitterness palpable. The truth it is better to be uncomfortable because you read these things, then to live them. It is far better to read these things, to write these things, then to keep them inside and watch the deterioration it will cause.