Last night my daughter called me, giving me some of the best news possible!

No, she is not pregnant.  In fact, I’ll be surprised if I live long enough to see grandchildren.

My daughter has always been a wonderfully creative writer. Every time I read her poems and prose, I wonder who this person is who looks like me, but has a talent that she certainly did not get from me.

For those of you who know me, don’t worry, I know I write well, but only technically. I am not a creative writer by any stretch of the imagination. But she is.

From about 12 to 18 years old, she often wrote daily, and it just flowed out of her. Her poems’ structures betray her youth and inexperience. But the words she puts together are stunning and powerful. They also manifest very deep pain and a longing to let her live with herself, including the dark and wounded parts of her soul.

Then at about 18, she stopped writing. She had school, then a job, then a boyfriend who she will probably marry. And it scared me that she stopped writing, because every day she did not write was another day she kept herself from the magnificent talent that is a vital part of “her.”

I’ve harped on her a lot over the years, begging her to at least write for fifteen minutes a day, just so she’d keep writing. But, of course, a nagging mother is an ignored mother. Frankly, I never let it go, but I did back off a lot.

So, last night she called me, and I was ecstatic to hear she had joined a Creative Writer’s Workshop!

In fact, she had gone to great lengths to join the workshop, as she was late registering and the group was at its limit. In the past, she would have just dropped it, but not this time. She kept calling them until they let her in! I was astonished when she told me this.

It was so funny, because she knew how I would react, and she was right. I was shouting how happy I was, telling her I was doing happy dances, and gushing how proud of her I was. She had told her boyfriend how happy I would be, so after she told me the news, she held up her phone so he could hear what she had been talking about. Apparently, although he was across the room, he could hear me just fine.

I am struck by the sense of relief I have, because I really thought she didn’t care about her writing anymore. That was heartbreaking to me, and I grieved my dreams that she would continue to write, giving me, and others, the gift of her words. I was afraid there would be no more tender, poignant, dark, frightening, and hopeful prose that, even if no one else ever saw it, would be something I could hold on to that was completely her. Sounds selfish, I know. Guilty as charged.

The workshop instructor gave them a writing assignment in class, and then they read each other’s composition to the group, where it was critiqued by the other members. It was a narrative, and when she read it to me I remembered the feeling of total awe I used to have as I just let her words sink in.

All of the workshop’s members gave her great feedback, most of it positive, and some critical, which is exactly what a workshop is supposed to do. And as she told me about it, for the first time I heard her admit that she was proud of her talent. I’d never sensed that from her before. I had told her repeatedly, almost daily, how talented she was, but she had never told her.

So, while she’s not pregnant, I do feel like she’s given me a grandchild of sorts, as her writing will be a legacy for all of us, including her children, tomorrow and generations to come.

But even if no one else reads it, for some reason it is very important to me to know that it exists. And I think it is now important to her, as well.

Elphaba

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I’ve been thinking for a while now about starting a blog. Everyone who knows me knows I can’t shut up, that my posts are far too long, and that I am self-absorbed and shallow.

But sometimes I’m not, and when I write the words that don’t fit anywhere, I feel like I’m using up space where I don’t belong. So I naturally think of a blog.

Also, those who know me well know I can do anything as long as I don’t HAVE to do it. That is one reason I’ve hesitated starting a blog, because this may be the one and only post I ever write.

But it’s 4 am, I can’t sleep, and I've just decided to babble, because I have to get this out of me.

I’m sad and scared and can’t stop crying. Within a matter of weeks I think I’ve messed up something really wonderful and precious to me. And I can’t fix it. I don’t even know what happened: one day everything was fine, the next someone I considered a friend did something that hurt me deeply.

It’s not this person’s fault, because “deeply” is far too strong an emotion to react with. But it’s what I do, and there are many and valid reasons for this. But though I do feel what happened shouldn‘t have, the problem is my overreaction, body and soul. I cannot stand the smallest slight, as it terrifies and infuriates me. Yes, I know that sounds melodramatic, but it really is what happens.

When this happens, I’m always either disassociating, moving out of someone’s way who doesn’t want me, moving somewhere safe where no one can hurt me, and then furious and crying because there is no such place. It’s where I’ve been for the last eight years of my life.

It’s probably obvious that this is all about abandonment and rejection, and not really about the incident. I’ve had so much of it in my 52 years, including some really horrible experiences beginning eight years ago that I don’t think I’ll ever truly recover from.

About a year ago I found this LDS board, and though I’m an ex-LDS, I made dear friends who I truly care for, and I “know” they care for me. People who are so genuine they helped bring me out of a bleak solitude that was dank and dark and depressing and devoid (I literally used to spend hours thinking of “D” words in my head). Deadly.

Anyway, this last week has been awful. When I feel “hit,” I feel slammed. And when that happens I just shut down and withdraw. I am officially physically disabled, and, unless I plan really well for it, I am in bed most days, so I’m already in the place to withdraw.

But I don’t just withdraw. I get furious. Furious and sad. So incredibly sad I don’t know where to put it. And the sadder I get, the more furious I am. But I can’t just be upset: I am angry at everyone for any and every little thing ever done to me in my entire life and why the hell am I 52 years old and typing this nonsense that sounds like a 12-year-old tantrum, and how am I going to live the rest of my life this way, and why why why why why?.

And worst of all, I don’t know how to fix it. It’s already done harm, and I literally do not know what to do. I think I want to talk about it, but I don’t know who I want to talk to, because if I say the wrong thing it will break apart again. In fact, after the “real” slight, there was another little one from someone I couldn’t care less about, and I WAS RIGHT BACK THERE AGAIN!

I used to be extremely suicidal, and for a good reason, I am not like that any more. But it used to just hover over me, like Pig Pen in his dust, and I felt tainted with death. I’d spend every waking moment strategizing how to die.

But it has been a good year since I’ve felt that “presence” of death lingering over me, and I owe it all to people from this board. But this week, with all of my craziness, it’s seeped back in, and has caught me so off guard I have felt paralyzed by it a few times. The point of describing this is to convey the terror I feel when I’m like this. I can’t look out of my blanket except when my entire body is under a gazillion covers, because I see things. And they scare me.

It is the terror that used to keep me suicidal, but I know I will never do anything to destroy myself.. I KNOW it is my psyche’s best guess at how to make the pain stop. But I will not die, and I will not allow that feeling to take hold, because I know I cannot allow it to do so. But when I’m like this it takes so much of my energy just holding it off, and I am defeated.

So that is where I am. Crying and scared and slammed and an idiot and scared and snotty and angry and so so so scared. I am very scared.

I am so scared.

Elphaba

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