The Day the Writing Stopped

It was, to put it mildly, a week from hell. Turbulence caused by upheaval in the lives of a few offspring derailed our plans, screwing up a birthday weekend, writing time, NaNoWriMo, and just life in general.

Mind you, I do not begrudge offspring needing a parental shoulder to cry on as long as big-kid underwear is put on as quickly as possible. Malingering angst doesn’t do anyone any good. Trust me. Been there, done that, burned the fucking t-shirt.

But when someone begins to drag other family members into the fray by texting things that shouldn’t be texted, and sending me tacky private messages that run the gamut of paranoia to self-pity, well that’s when I take off the gloves and start slapping right back. It might have been fine had I not been told to stop before I’d said my peace, but instead of letting that idiot know exactly how unimpressed I was with her over-the-top dramatics, I acquiesced and left the last word with the undeserving bitch.

I was not allowed to vent my anger over this to anyone and every time I brought it up, the subject would be changed. I couldn’t explain that I felt like I was the only one who was willing to tell the “Bitch Behind the Bother” exactly what I thought of her. Everyone else was willing to walk on eggshells and just “let it go.”

“Let it go” so it can continue and everyone can complain about how awful it is. The injustice rankled to the point where I simply gave up. I gave up feeling. I gave up caring. And I gave up writing.

Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t do it. When I write, I visualize the scene in my head, 3-D and full color. I do not interact with the characters, I just write what I see and hear. It unfolds and plays out, and I write it. But after the debacle, I could no longer see any stories in color. In fact, they appeared to me as stone; unmoving, cold, totally lifeless. My writing was broken. I’ve had writer’s block before, but it never felt or looked anything like that. The Gorgon had cast her eyes upon my writing and turned it to stone.

Tam was upset when I told her.

I was upset. In fact, I was so upset I came unhinged. My love and I were sitting alone at home when I brought up the subject once again. She tried to change the conversation but I stopped her. “I need to say this,” I said. “I need to let it out, but I need someone to hear me. I need you to listen. Please.”

My beloved nodded and let me talk. She let me vent my anger (none of which was directed at her), cry my eyes out, scream and yell until my voice was gone. She did not interrupt. She did not try to comfort me mid rant and tell me it was going to be ok. She let me go on and on about how much I hated the young woman who had ignited the fire in our lives. She did not try to tell me hating was bad. She did not try to defend anyone. She let me unload my pain right there in our living room.

There was a lot behind that pain that wasn’t attached to the latest offspring catastrophe; there was a lot of frustration about my job pushing that vitriolic stream of words from my mouth. The target bitch was acting exactly like my students do on a daily basis. I have to live with it at work without showing anger; but I see no reason I should have to deal with it that same way when it is directed at my family. So I let it loose.

After all that rage had spent itself, I felt drained. I felt lighter and in a little more control. I felt I’d been heard, and that was the most important aspect of the whole thing. My words were heard and acknowledged. I was supported, maybe not totally agreed with and I understand and accept that, but my pain was supported and that was the most soothing balm for my aching heart.

I still cannot write my NaNo project, nor can I edit, but there is hope. I am missing those characters and I long to spend time with them again. I do not hold false hope of finishing NaNo with another win this year, but I’m at peace with that thought.

I’m finally finding peace with myself…and I’m writing. It’s not fiction, it’s not my project, it’s not editing, but it is writing and it is more than I’ve been able to do in over a week. I am no longer focused (fixated?) on what I want to say to that worthless piece of vermin dander (although I am having a great time making up vicious names for her). I am working on letting it go.

And I’m reveling in the knowledge that she will not be allowed to darken my doorstep ever again, at least not until I have my say to her face.

Yeah, I’m good now.