On being absent
And avoiding living my entire life.
You may have noticed I have been absent from Substack.
Writing has always been a solace for me. I’m the youngest in a family full of attorneys, so I can’t go to a family function without being interrupted. It’s all well-meaning, but nevertheless, it left a mark on me in a way that makes me freeze under pressure and renders me incapable of speaking my mind in the heat of the moment.
When confronted by conflict, I fold like a lawn chair, and concede to all of my sparring partner’s confidence. Then I go home and pick myself up by writing.
I write in my journal.
I write on Substack.
I write on my arm.
I write on the back of receipts.
I write handwritten letters to people to whom I couldn’t manage to explain myself to in the heat of the moment.
I sometimes write letters to my future self hoping to manifest my needs and desires. (Sometimes it works.)
Now I only write marketing copy.
2022 and the early part of 2023 was an incredible year for my writing. Wonderful people entered my life and opportunities flourished. I felt inspired as if God himself was dictating the words right onto the page. I had never had so much hope in the future.
In April, 2023, I took a trip I believed would change my life. Instead I returned home crushed, insecure, and with my tail between my legs. My life fell apart personally, then financially, then professionally, and now I am left still deciding how to put the pieces back together. The inspiration is gone, and I can’t seem to find words to put on the page unless it is about joining some VIP email marketing list or checking out “these cool new products!”
Instead, I avoided participating in things to avoid pain.
In high school, I skipped most of my classes. I had been bullied, and wanted to avoid my tormentors (although with some perspective, I realize we were all just teenagers.)
It wasn’t just school. Despite how much I loved dancing, I skipped ballet classes.
Later in college, I avoided putting my hand up in class because I’d catch other students muttering about me under their breath.
I didn’t go to parties or activities because I knew I would be clinging to the wall.
I would use the tiniest headache as an excuse to use my PTO and avoid domineering co-workers.
I opted out of talking to people I wanted to be friends with or guys that I thought were cute because I just assumed I would be rejected.
I seldom post to my personal social media anymore because during the pandemic several friends were infuriated by something I wrote. Just before blocking me, they left scathing, personal messages in my DMs.
I’ve been accused many times in my life of being too sensitive to criticism, and to some extent, I agree. But it was never because I was too protective of my work or precious about my ego — I am crippled by my fear of getting everything wrong, so I just don’t try.
When I lost my job a few years ago and decided that I would prefer to work on a freelance basis, I realized my choices to avoid everything were coming back to bite me. Suddenly, I was living in a world where I had to speak up, compete, cause a stir, and pitch myself. I can’t cling to the safety of a wall or put off a stressful meeting one more day with PTO. It’s like having to repeat my senior year of high school for the 15th time.
I’m left wondering what other opportunities I have missed. Should I be regretful or contrite? By trying to not mess everything up, did I mess everything up?
Writing is about choices — most importantly, the choice to write. By the time I am done writing this meandering self-inquisition of an essay, I will have deleted half of what I wrote, second-guessed which experiences to share, and wondered if it is even worth sharing at all if I can’t even access the deep well of inspiration I felt a year ago.
What is left is a choice: Stop writing and let my creativity atrophy or keep writing, suffer the pain and discomfort of opening myself up, and try and access that inspiration again.
Hey, you. It has been a while since I have written here with any regularity. Writing this essay was a practice in working my creative muscles again because I want to keep writing here.
Last year and the year before that, I probably bit off more than I could chew trying to turn this into some sort of ambitious community space. We’re trying again — but slowly. Eventually I’ll start putting paywalls up again and niching down into more defined subject matter. Until then, this place might just have the occasional personal essay.
As always, I love hearing from you guys. I also would love to keep publishing things you write, so if you have any ideas, feel free to reach out to me at thecharrette@substack.com.
You are a great writer and you know how to write...something that I am grateful for when I read your essays and when I have the privilege to work with you. I am a huge fan of mental health care. Therapy and meds are finally treated like self care instead of social suicide. You have all of the ingredients to be anything you want to be, don't let you get in your way. with love, K
" ... and wondered if it is even worth sharing at all if I can’t even access the deep well of inspiration I felt a year ago."
It is absolutely worth sharing, Kathleen! All of it. And the well of inspiration could not have gone away because it is yours and resides in you. You may not feel it right now, but that doesn't mean it has run dry! So please, don't stop writing. :)