Teenage Me Is Freaking Out I’m Writing Again

Mondays are for co-working. It’s virtual, five of us coming together from various points on a map to spend a couple of hours working on our crafts. I miss sitting in coffee shops with other writers, all of us tap-tap-tapping away on our keywords, a comforting polyrhythic rhythm. But my comprised immune system cannot risk indoor group activities. No matter how much I want to – I want to stay alive much more.

tap.tap.tap

Our words matter, your words matter.

Yesterday I hit publish on a piece about my fear of dying. My brain promptly started working overtime trying to convince me no one would read, no one would care and that it certainly wasn’t going to be helpful for anyone but me.

Part of returning to the page is accepting that I’m rusty, words feel awkward, my confidence has taken a hit from the past. And I imagine it’s that way for anyone returning to a practice they left untended for a length of time. We’ve just got to muddle our way through the awkward until we find our footing again.

I’m still muddling, my fingering tripping over themselves in this old familiar dance.

tap.tap.tap

“It’s OK” a refrain I kept telling myself. “We’ll get there.”

And a part of me wholeheartedly believes that I will find my way not just to my past writing self, but a new writing self that is brave, bolder, gentler, and more helpful still.

Let’s imagine she sits on my right shoulder like a little sprite, cheering me on. She’s a rad wee friend here.

tap.tap.tap

“No one cares what you have to say.” says a harder, teenage voice. “Stop embarrassing yourself!”

And she means well for sure, this teenage part of me. She was the first to put pen to paper. The first to deal with people misunderstanding her words. The first to be belittled for thinking their a writer by people too terrified to even try themselves.

Let’s imagine she sits on my left shoulder in her torn jeans & long black trench coat under the Phoenix sun. She’s also a rad wee friend here because she’s only trying to protect us – she knows no better. Telling her to shut up or ignoring her is only a form of self-harm.

tap.tap.tap

Parts work, as its referred to within the Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapeutic community, is an amazing tool for learning how to not just accept, but love all parts of ourselves. Like that belligerent teenager on my left shoulder with the hard edge to he voice. She means no harm, only speaking harshly because her yet younger selves were ignored when they soft softly. She only tells me off in the effort of an immature guardian who thinks if we just stay silent maybe, just maybe we’ll be accepted, be acceptable enough to be loved.

And she’s not completely wrong, but she’s always no where near completely right.

Staying silent does afford a creative soul some form of safety from others, but it also tend to sit inside our souls rotting us from the inside out.

Staying silent keeps us from finding our people and, worst than that, it keeps us from finding ourselves.

Staying silent usually only benefits those who wish us harm, or at least wish us to be less than they brave to be.

tap.tap.tap

Were I a better at drawing, I’d share an image of her. I can see her so clearly in my mind. Beneath that hard voice, tight shoulders, and scowling gaze sits a tender, frightened, very lonely youth who only wanted to be accepted and possibly even loved.

Just a lonely awkward teenager looking for someone somewhere to belong.

Part of me still very much feels like that lonely, awkward teenager looking for somewhere to belong

A motherless, friendless, godless kid who was tired of being othered and wondering if losing herself in an effort to fit might not be the better way. All those kids in high soul who all seemed to dress alike, act alike, be alike had friends – maybe that was the secret?

Was erasing who you are the only way to be happy?

It seemed like it and yet teenage me still said fuck it, I guess I won’t fit in then because I can’t go through life pretending to be something and someone I’m not. I’d rather be alone then lonely in a crowd of ‘friends’ who only invited me because I faked it good enough.

So I kept writing my angsty teenage poetry that no one wanted to read but I couldn’t stop writing.

tap.tap.tap

In a way, I guess I’m back here at grace & magic writing again to honor her, that brave kid who said fuck it and just kept writing.

Oh, and that piece I published yesterday? Last night I got a message from a reader thanking me for it because it was just what they needed to come across that day. That reminder that words, mine AND yours, really do matter. That our words really can help others feel less alone was exactly what teenage (and middle-aged) me needed last night.

Thank you for reading.

Love,

Kat