I love to write.
That sentence doesn't even begin to encompass how I feel. I more than love to write. Writing is a beautiful gift that allows me to express myself without having to do any of the things I hate. And that list is fairly long.
I have to consciously force myself to make eye contact with anyone. I'm sure it's a bit off putting to others, but I can feel my anxiety creeping up when I force myself to do it, so I don't. And honestly, I don't think it's that I hate making eye contact, it's probably more of a fear, but admitting that I'm afraid of something so silly sounds...weak.
I hate walking up to people and talking. There are people I have known for years that I still struggle to talk to. Again, maybe it's not so much that I hate it, but that I fear the rejection that could happen. And that one extends to any sort of communication- phones, emails, texts.
And what is absolutely crazy is- this is only in a social/personal setting! Okay, the phone thing wigs me out to no end and if you irritate me, I will tend to avoid you, but in a business setting? I can be like a bulldog with a bone. In fact, I had a nickname for a very long time of just that. Bulldog. Because when we are in a professional setting, there is nothing you can do to hurt me. You are not important enough for your words to matter to me and you don't know me well enough to be able to sling the barbs that will cut me down.
But those people I know in a social/personal setting? I care about their opinions. I want them to see me as normal and okay and worthy of their time. So, so they don't get that reason to hurt me, I don't give them the opening.
Writing though, doesn't judge. I can take my time and make sure I've thought every single word through, measured it's weight and how the audience might respond. I can write and opt to keep it to myself or only tell one person. I can colorfully phrase something to hide how it impacts me.
I remember loving writing very young. In second or third grade I won some little award in a Young Authors contest and got my picture in the local paper. In middle school, my favorite assignments were the writing ones; and by high school, I was doing it for fun. But writing for fun wasn't going to get me into law school and it was a waste of time and, worst of all, it gave my mother ammunition.
I had built in shelves and drawers in my room and the cabinet had a false floor. I filled that space with piles of spiral notebooks of stories. I wrote late at night by a flashlight in my closet (because my mother could see if my bedroom light was on out her own window by how it reflected off the neighbor's house). I wrote whenever I had free time, and it was the most glorious escape. But a day came and I'd stepped out of line somehow and when my mother burst into the room, I had the cabinet open and the floor lifted, exposing all my notebooks.
As I screamed and begged and cried, one by one she ripped up every. single. page. The entire time she screamed at me about how this wasn't going to get me into law school and how I was going to waste my life. And then, because she already had me as a sniffling, trembling mess, she forced me to be the one to get a garbage back and clean up all the paper.
I didn't write for pleasure again for almost fifteen years. If I didn't write it down, it couldn't be taken from me.
If someone asked what I liked to do for fun, I just shrugged. I couldn't admit to liking anything because fun wouldn't get me into law school.
I was never asked if I wanted to go to law school. But I was expected to because I had been gifted a very nice first and middle name that was picked because it would look good lettered on an office door. It was my job to "fix" my last name so it would look good too.
I've made it to my thirties and people ask me what I do for fun. I don't. I live much like a hermit, leaving the safety of my home only when necessary.
But I do write. But I write under a false name, if I share at all, because if no one can prove it's mine then no one can take it away. And I really don't want it taken away.
That sentence doesn't even begin to encompass how I feel. I more than love to write. Writing is a beautiful gift that allows me to express myself without having to do any of the things I hate. And that list is fairly long.
I have to consciously force myself to make eye contact with anyone. I'm sure it's a bit off putting to others, but I can feel my anxiety creeping up when I force myself to do it, so I don't. And honestly, I don't think it's that I hate making eye contact, it's probably more of a fear, but admitting that I'm afraid of something so silly sounds...weak.
I hate walking up to people and talking. There are people I have known for years that I still struggle to talk to. Again, maybe it's not so much that I hate it, but that I fear the rejection that could happen. And that one extends to any sort of communication- phones, emails, texts.
And what is absolutely crazy is- this is only in a social/personal setting! Okay, the phone thing wigs me out to no end and if you irritate me, I will tend to avoid you, but in a business setting? I can be like a bulldog with a bone. In fact, I had a nickname for a very long time of just that. Bulldog. Because when we are in a professional setting, there is nothing you can do to hurt me. You are not important enough for your words to matter to me and you don't know me well enough to be able to sling the barbs that will cut me down.
But those people I know in a social/personal setting? I care about their opinions. I want them to see me as normal and okay and worthy of their time. So, so they don't get that reason to hurt me, I don't give them the opening.
Writing though, doesn't judge. I can take my time and make sure I've thought every single word through, measured it's weight and how the audience might respond. I can write and opt to keep it to myself or only tell one person. I can colorfully phrase something to hide how it impacts me.
I remember loving writing very young. In second or third grade I won some little award in a Young Authors contest and got my picture in the local paper. In middle school, my favorite assignments were the writing ones; and by high school, I was doing it for fun. But writing for fun wasn't going to get me into law school and it was a waste of time and, worst of all, it gave my mother ammunition.
I had built in shelves and drawers in my room and the cabinet had a false floor. I filled that space with piles of spiral notebooks of stories. I wrote late at night by a flashlight in my closet (because my mother could see if my bedroom light was on out her own window by how it reflected off the neighbor's house). I wrote whenever I had free time, and it was the most glorious escape. But a day came and I'd stepped out of line somehow and when my mother burst into the room, I had the cabinet open and the floor lifted, exposing all my notebooks.
As I screamed and begged and cried, one by one she ripped up every. single. page. The entire time she screamed at me about how this wasn't going to get me into law school and how I was going to waste my life. And then, because she already had me as a sniffling, trembling mess, she forced me to be the one to get a garbage back and clean up all the paper.
I didn't write for pleasure again for almost fifteen years. If I didn't write it down, it couldn't be taken from me.
If someone asked what I liked to do for fun, I just shrugged. I couldn't admit to liking anything because fun wouldn't get me into law school.
I was never asked if I wanted to go to law school. But I was expected to because I had been gifted a very nice first and middle name that was picked because it would look good lettered on an office door. It was my job to "fix" my last name so it would look good too.
I've made it to my thirties and people ask me what I do for fun. I don't. I live much like a hermit, leaving the safety of my home only when necessary.
But I do write. But I write under a false name, if I share at all, because if no one can prove it's mine then no one can take it away. And I really don't want it taken away.
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