The Scribe Herself…
I just finished watching the third season of Bridgerton. Not typically one to enjoy your typical romance novel, I had never heard of the series prior to it being on Netflix and I - like many of you gentle readers - became hooked. How glorious to be able to freely write your thoughts and feelings, in an age where women had no voice or freedom to comment on the happenings of the day. Though this is not a relatable concept in the modern days of social media where there are no end of trolls that live in your neighborhood instead of under bridges, there is an air of romance in the seemingly simple act of putting pen to paper, releasing your inhibitions, and purposing to speak your truth.
That was what this blog was supposed to be for me - at least this corner of it. To allow myself the room to give breath to the thoughts that I cannot process internally and just release them into the ether. If I’m honest, my writing has slowed (who are we kidding, it stopped) for two reasons:
Taking care of another human in the way that is required for someone with ALS takes so much of my mental and emotional strength that the simple act of using a keyboard at the end of the night or in the early morning hours before he wakes seems daunting. Additionally, there are very few silver linings with his illness so even the most positive spin is still rather dreary. I instead indulge any free time with crochet and garbage television, a glass of wine and TikTok videos, or on the very best days I actually sleep.
People told me they liked my writing. I received compliments and was encouraged to keep going. I received positive affirmation and one person even told me to write a book.
The majority of you read the first reason and instantly understood and may have even gave a side nod of “well yeah” acknowledging why I, or anyone, would put aside this type of hobby and devote their time to things that bring them the most joy. However, after reading the second reason, most of you (who have not had Botox) either furrowed your brow or raised a single eyebrow Jack Nicholson style, possibly wondering about my mental acuity and why compliments or positive reinforcement would cause someone to turn away from something that I, and others, seemingly enjoy.
I have been writing since I was a teenager - earlier really, but tweenagers weren’t a thing back in my day. Like so many, I was filled with thoughts and emotions about the large and small dramas in my tiny, unimportant, life and I had to do something with them. I was the middle child in a family of big personalities and writing was the only place I could go to be myself, without criticism (real or perceived) and where I could speak without interruption or fear that someone else was going to steal my thunder. You see when you are the lone introvert amongst extroverts, you learn how to shield yourself well. You work very hard to behave publicly in ways that make everyone around you feel at ease. I learned very young that I was quick witted and could make people laugh. I often chose to avoid the embarrassment of being teased by making jokes at my own expense when in mixed company. This allowed for upbeat rather than awkward interactions where the bullies could still laugh at me, but I was able to control it. After those interactions, I would inevitably go home and eviscerate the assholes who dared laugh and dream of the day that I would have anyone that would stand up for me instead of just laughing along. (It never crossed my mind at the time to stop letting myself be the target of my own angst…that took many years, therapy, and a great deal of work).
Naturally, I dared not share my writing. It was my secret place. Very rarely would I allow others into the world where my truth could be exposed. As I journeyed into adulthood, I met people - other creatives - who challenged me to push past the insecurities that kept me from sharing this side of myself. I joined poetry groups online, I started a blog and I realized I was not alone. It was during this time that someone I respect and cherish immensely came to me, hugged me and whispered in my ear “be a ready writer”. And I was. I kept journals with me always. I was so certain that the inspiration would strike and that I would be remembered not as the quirky fat girl but as a literary genius.
During my early 30s, I worked with kids to help them use their own words to express thoughts and feelings and turn it into a song. With a little help from me on guitar, they wrote a song that they performed for their friends and family. I helped write and produce the children’s VPK play. I wrote the script and lyrics for eight songs for a musical and, with a local musician, many of you would now know, created the musical arrangements. The cast successfully performed the musical multiple times over the course of a weekend. I had found my purpose and my people.
But then the compliments came. I was brought out from behind the curtain and recognized. I received requests to write another musical and to keep going. But you see, people are wildly predictable and consistent. They will be your closest confidant in one moment and in the next they will share your secrets or talk about your flaws with the people you trust least in the world. We can be genuinely awful to each other. So I did what I always do…I returned to the shadows.
How do you trust again? How do you let yourself be so vulnerable that you give people the power to hurt you - especially when the circumstances in your life already have you feeling a little shattered? Because of these insecurities and my own inability to be vulnerable, I haven’t been sharing enough stories about the wonderful man who stole my heart and made me feel like the most valuable human to ever walk the planet. I stopped telling you of our collective failures and triumphs. I’m not sharing the stories that would make you laugh until you cried…or even those that would just make you cry.
I realized all of this in the final 13 minutes of the last episode of the newest season of Bridgerton (you’re welcome for no spoilers). As I sat in my chair, ugly crying, I realized that a life doesn’t have to be splashy, glitzy or filled with money and fame to be worthy or important. Brent has never understood his own worth or the meaning he adds to other people’s lives.
So I am sharpening my pen (figuratively, of course, cause that would just be insane) and I am going to be a ready writer. I will purpose to write about his life and the amazing ways he turned mine and my daughter’s life around twelve years ago. I will do my best to post at least twice a week - and I ask that you all help to hold me accountable. I mean, obviously - don’t tell me if you like it, just remind me that a blog is owed.
One step at a time…
