I mostly post here when I’m miserable. That’s pretty often, but it’s not a complete picture. I have been struggling for a long time with the reality that I’ve never had anyone that encouraged or believed in me. My baby boomer father was too obsessed with his grandiose sense of entitlement, his dimwit wife found me an unrelatable burden, and my mother was too timid to do much of anything. My poor sister is much younger than me, and I never expected that of her. My aunts and uncles were kind, but distant. My middle school and high school friends, the same. No grandparents. So, no one.
Tough-love people might say, well, honey, just get over it. They either never had this problem, or claim to have had the same problem and now they’re totally fine. Which is horseshiet. I don’t think anyone really gets over having no one. Not entirely. That gaping void where love and warmth should have been maybe never fills up completely. Maybe some people fill that void with children, but that doesn’t always turn out great. I mean, that’s what my mother did, and look at me. Others fill it with significant others. Well, that’s not healthy either. I’ve always felt that for me, the only way to push that void closed for at least a little while is to write.
Creativity is relief and release. My creativity is alternately dampened and nourished by suffering. There are days when I think that the only thing I can bear to do is sit on my couch and stare at page after page of links online. Hey, another cat video. Look, a dank meme. Oh boy, Syria’s really getting nasty. Yet when I do force myself to put pen to paper, and when I write things other than miserable mentally ill rants, the suffering and emptiness I feel is swept away. I am suspended in the now, or rather in the now of some other world. A world where I can be anyone and anything.
Despite what I just said, I don’t do Mary Sues or Gary Stues, or what have you. They’re fun if you need to vent, but don’t release it for public viewing. That’s how Twilight happened. I tend to write stories about superhumans with impossible powers. I’ve always been drawn to that sort of world, but as I’ve aged, I appreciate more complex characters. Stories with nuance rather than the Biff! Pow! comics and stories I loved as a child. This is common for most escapist sci-fi and fantasy nerds, I suppose. Though I do enjoy a good One-Punch Man-type hero every now and then. I’m not too highbrow to turn down a story with ludicrously overpowered characters, if handled well.
So, the point to which I have meandered in a roundabout way, is that I need to write again. I have been steadily building the courage to write again. What I write may not be good. It might be incoherent, stream of consciousness absurdist garbage. It may be too grimdark for even most of my target audience. But my personal lord and savior Stephen King’s #1 rule for writing is to write for oneself, and I intend to obey. Lest I be cast into the fiery pits of Legbeardia forever. The hairy pits of Legbeardia? Reaching there, I think.
It does take courage to write, especially if you have had less than positive reception to your creativity in the past. Ye olde stepmother was certain I was a.. a.. gay lesbian superdyke because I read Spiderman and other comics, and even wrote and drew my own. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a gay lesbian superdyke, I emphasize. My stepmother’s self-flattering homophobia is something I like to mock. Well, I like to mock everything about her, including her love affair with Mr. Krylon Gold. She also liked to read my diary. Pretty much everything that I loved made her dislike me more and more.
In the end.. What am I waiting for? I’ll be 40, 50, 60 and probably still chronically depressed with nothing meaningful accomplished if I continue on this way. I feel like I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what it is. Waiting for some right moment, some big change before I can do anything that is meaningful to me. Like I’ve been holding my breath for the fifteen years that has passed since I left the house that was never a home. I suppose I’ll always come back here, to spew the venom built up inside of me. But 2017 is coming. ::Jon Snow moment:: And like the chump I am, I think I’m going to set up some sort of resolution to write every day, if even for 20 minutes.