The Quirks of Being a Wallflower
I’ve written every day for the last four years. Long diatribes of longing, funny anecdotes of life and even historical essays of lore. They just aren’t in black and white. Nope- you’ll never read them, and I’ll never be able to recapture those thoughts because they are gone. They were only in my mind. Long gone, and that must be okay. She wasn’t willing to write, because She didn’t know if Her words were worthy and also?
Because She just wasn’t ready yet. There was growing to do, and evolution is inevitable. Thank God. She can now claim this as Her own. This space and time. This rhythm and rhyme. This memoir of mine.
Oh damn, I love alliteration and capitalization and all the things, right? I enjoy trying to figure out just how to communicate to you all this morning, because She’s a bit quirky and weird. I like Her, because She is who connected to ANY teen angst movie of our youth and who now chooses to interact with my own teens with both proactive patience, acceptance and understanding.
I’ve always been an observer, often taking in so much of my environment that the mental and emotional stimulation was all just a bit too much sometimes. I’d watch dramatic movies where the character on the screen was riding the back of a pickup truck bed with arms outstretched, beckoning confidence and control and even more so…contentment, and then turn the camera to myself only to see that my own facial expressions FAR overdramatized what was actually happening on the screen. Lord, I mean She needed to settle down, right? Leaning forward on the couch with that wide-eyed look of eager involvement with tears streaming down her face might have been one of the first signs that emotions and ideas may need to be expressed fully and fervently in order to remain healthy and balanced. Otherwise, She might regress, or at the very least, stagnate.
Truth: Creativity, expression and connection are what tie Her to this world and everything that she loves within it. And that includes you.
After months of mulling over this blogging thing and considering just how and why I missed it, I had an eye-opening conversation with a bloke from my yesteryears just a couple of weeks ago. He used to keep up with the writing, and we had talked on the phone a few times while I was still actively posting but had not reconnected in quite some time. Generous and kind, He represents the very best in how we must hold onto connection with the minds and hearts of those who surround us all. We can easily hang on validation from key people in our lives, but it’s often the quiet and calming voices of colleagues, cousins and other colorful characters in our lives that bring about real change. If we are present. If we take it in, absorb words and interactions with graciousness and just listen to what’s being said. He introduced me to the idea of defining this endeavor. And that was the turning point.
He told me that I’m a Memoirist, and that was revelatory.
From that point, intention changed for me, because digging into the genre allowed me acceptance of this innate vulnerability that seems to make it onto the screen if I just believe that the emotions and thoughts within have real purpose and merit. And that I’m not simply putting myself out there to be judged.
Therefore, I got proactive, which has always been a core strength. As much as it may seem that I ruminate on thoughts, I learned in Recovery that if I don’t translate them into action of some kind, I will not grow. And remember, I can tend to go right back into isolation and the need for rehabilitation if I don’t figure out what to do next and fucking do it.
There isn’t any fear that keeps me still for too long, because I’ve experienced serious destabilization and change as an adult and at 51, I feel like I’ve led a new life just about every five or ten years. Right?!? There’s the young Wife, there’s the stay-at-home floral designing Mom, there’s the divorced Lost Soul, there’s the Seeker who found Mike and began to heal, and now there’s the Voice that believes not only in herself as a human being with something unique to offer the world but a mission to make the most of the quirks within, because they are not all bad.
So, after that initial conversation about my writing with my old friend, I discussed resuming the blog with my mom. She recommended that I reach out to a Real Writer and friend of hers…you know, someone who has claimed it as an actual profession with money in the bank to prove it. Ha! Right? And that seemed entirely sensible since we’re talking about my professions too.
I was terrified, really. I mean, it was a real risk that he’d placate or dismiss me entirely, because I’ve been through that before in other bold ventures in my life, but He didn’t. He offered insight and inspection, and continued guidance throughout this current reiteration of the writing. And subsequently, that single conversation crowned the beginning of what This is, this leaning into the quirks of being a wallflower and writer of the soul. Yep, He encouraged me and helped me realize that I must advocate for myself just like I’ve advocated before. Only I can do that for myself. It’s up to me to start writing again, claim this space, invoke some new creative energy and intimate intention. And just see what happens.
I’m glad She listened. She didn’t listen to You four years ago, and I apologize for discounting your words and involvement.
She is Me.
And I Am a Writer.
*Thank you Ralph. Thank you, Chris.
And thanks, Mom.
