Less than a year ago, I sat in my therapist’s office in an all out panic. I had made the decision to write and was determined to make it happen, but beyond a few stories that had been dancing around my head for years, I had nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada.
I knew what had to be done: it’s basic writing 101. I had to look into myself and call on experiences and observations from my past. What was I feeling then? Who was I at the time and (perhaps more importantly) who did I want to be? But calling on my experiences was a lot easier said than done. At least, for me.
I have spent the majority of my life being the kind of person who represses negative emotions and experiences. It’s one in a series of delightfully unhealthy (yet arguably practical) coping mechanisms I picked up on my life journey. There are others, often closely related, like being a perfectionist which is, by the by, why I felt that I needed to repress things in the first place – gotta be perfect and perfect doesn’t play nicely with weakness or hurt. Hence, the fact that I had this moment of anxiety on my therapist’s couch, but I digress.
But back to what I was saying: Until recently, I repressed almost any negative emotion or experience. Over the years, I was guilty of taking the whole, “find your happy place” mantra a little farther than I am certain it was ever intended to go. I was the girl who simply escaped into her imagination when faced with the unpleasant and that meant anything from a long line at the grocery store to an untimely death. It all got dumped in an attempt to keep myself from slipping into an all out hissy fit.
There is this scene in a SpongeBob episode – it’s the one where Squidward claims he’s the owner of a fancy restaurant if you follow the show – at any rate, SpongeBob is faced with a seemingly impossible task: he must learn everything there is to know about fine dining and become a waiter in the span of minutes. SpongeBob does the only thing he can under impossible circumstances; he mentally starts ditching files and files of memories. The action is illustrated by showing all these duplicates of himself literally dumping files while a foreman version of himself shouts, “It’s all got to go, all of it!”
In many ways, that was me. Yes, I think I can say it. I can identify with SpongeBob SquarePants on a personal level. In the past, I’ve found myself faced with tasks that required me to be at my best and sometimes – more often than I like – I’ve chosen to simply dump everything else so that I can master one single moment. Often, that was just keeping it together without being reduced to a humiliating public scene involving profanity, tears and thumb-sucking. I’m there in my mind, tossing things into the rubbish bin and shouting at myself (internally) that it all has to go, all of it!
So back to SpongeBob. . . There he is in this façade of a restaurant providing Squilliam Fancyson (yes I know his name, ease up, I’ve got young kids. Naw, I’m lying. I watch the show alone) with the best fine dining experience of his life and Squilliam asks him his name. SpongeBob panics. His name? His name? The screen is suddenly filled with all of these images of SpongeBobs running frantically in search of his name until one says, “I’ve got nothin’.”
I knew what had to be done: it’s basic writing 101. I had to look into myself and call on experiences and observations from my past. What was I feeling then? Who was I at the time and (perhaps more importantly) who did I want to be? But calling on my experiences was a lot easier said than done. At least, for me.
I have spent the majority of my life being the kind of person who represses negative emotions and experiences. It’s one in a series of delightfully unhealthy (yet arguably practical) coping mechanisms I picked up on my life journey. There are others, often closely related, like being a perfectionist which is, by the by, why I felt that I needed to repress things in the first place – gotta be perfect and perfect doesn’t play nicely with weakness or hurt. Hence, the fact that I had this moment of anxiety on my therapist’s couch, but I digress.
But back to what I was saying: Until recently, I repressed almost any negative emotion or experience. Over the years, I was guilty of taking the whole, “find your happy place” mantra a little farther than I am certain it was ever intended to go. I was the girl who simply escaped into her imagination when faced with the unpleasant and that meant anything from a long line at the grocery store to an untimely death. It all got dumped in an attempt to keep myself from slipping into an all out hissy fit.
There is this scene in a SpongeBob episode – it’s the one where Squidward claims he’s the owner of a fancy restaurant if you follow the show – at any rate, SpongeBob is faced with a seemingly impossible task: he must learn everything there is to know about fine dining and become a waiter in the span of minutes. SpongeBob does the only thing he can under impossible circumstances; he mentally starts ditching files and files of memories. The action is illustrated by showing all these duplicates of himself literally dumping files while a foreman version of himself shouts, “It’s all got to go, all of it!”
In many ways, that was me. Yes, I think I can say it. I can identify with SpongeBob SquarePants on a personal level. In the past, I’ve found myself faced with tasks that required me to be at my best and sometimes – more often than I like – I’ve chosen to simply dump everything else so that I can master one single moment. Often, that was just keeping it together without being reduced to a humiliating public scene involving profanity, tears and thumb-sucking. I’m there in my mind, tossing things into the rubbish bin and shouting at myself (internally) that it all has to go, all of it!
So back to SpongeBob. . . There he is in this façade of a restaurant providing Squilliam Fancyson (yes I know his name, ease up, I’ve got young kids. Naw, I’m lying. I watch the show alone) with the best fine dining experience of his life and Squilliam asks him his name. SpongeBob panics. His name? His name? The screen is suddenly filled with all of these images of SpongeBobs running frantically in search of his name until one says, “I’ve got nothin’.”
That’s the problem with repression and avoidance. When it comes time to access the substance, to voice who it is you really are all too often the truth is this: you’ve got nothing.
Of course, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to realize that this particular coping mechanism is inherently problematic for anyone who dreams of becoming a writer. The very essence of the skill is tapping into human emotions. That includes the ugly ones like being hurt; being afraid; or feeling like for whatever reason you aren’t quite whatever enough for the current situation. Ooo, the perfectionist in me just bristled at the very idea. Give me a moment to shake it off.
Okay, I’m back. Baby steps. So there I was in the therapist’s office freaking out because I’d locked off all these parts of myself and in the process, lost so much more. There were years and years that I couldn’t recall. I could remember where I was, geographically, but certainly not emotionally. Sometimes I would get a fuzzy read that something bad happened there, like the blurred images on television that suggest something unacceptable but don’t actually let you know what it is.
Every time I tried to tap into something, I would come up short. Talk about screwed.
And then it happened. The royal blue headings and the friend requests. That’s right people, Facebook happened. And with it, came the witnesses, the folks who remembered when, like that sober friend who can tell you just how big of an ass you really were at the party last night. They came and they brought the memories with them. And a funny thing happened: I began to find myself. Through their memories, I found my own. Oh gosh, I was there. I did that. [Groan] I wore that. I said that?
I won’t pretend that the ugly stuff didn’t come to, it did. But the funny thing is that it wasn’t so hard this time around because I gave myself permission to be foolhardy, to be inappropriate, and to be downright chagrined by my choices. I also gave myself credit for the lessons learned, the revisions made, and the grace to apologize when I needed to. Mostly, I forgave myself for being imperfect, time and time and time again.
And you know what? I think it made me a better writer. If nothing else, it’s made me a better mom, a better wife and a better friend. The funny thing about forgiveness is that it frees you to just be. Who knows? Taking a moment to curse and scream and bust out with a little thumbsucking might not have been so bad. I do it all the time now – well, not the thumbsucking but I’m keeping that one in the chamber, just in case – and I don’t feel the least bit worse for wear.
Of course, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to realize that this particular coping mechanism is inherently problematic for anyone who dreams of becoming a writer. The very essence of the skill is tapping into human emotions. That includes the ugly ones like being hurt; being afraid; or feeling like for whatever reason you aren’t quite whatever enough for the current situation. Ooo, the perfectionist in me just bristled at the very idea. Give me a moment to shake it off.
Okay, I’m back. Baby steps. So there I was in the therapist’s office freaking out because I’d locked off all these parts of myself and in the process, lost so much more. There were years and years that I couldn’t recall. I could remember where I was, geographically, but certainly not emotionally. Sometimes I would get a fuzzy read that something bad happened there, like the blurred images on television that suggest something unacceptable but don’t actually let you know what it is.
Every time I tried to tap into something, I would come up short. Talk about screwed.
And then it happened. The royal blue headings and the friend requests. That’s right people, Facebook happened. And with it, came the witnesses, the folks who remembered when, like that sober friend who can tell you just how big of an ass you really were at the party last night. They came and they brought the memories with them. And a funny thing happened: I began to find myself. Through their memories, I found my own. Oh gosh, I was there. I did that. [Groan] I wore that. I said that?
I won’t pretend that the ugly stuff didn’t come to, it did. But the funny thing is that it wasn’t so hard this time around because I gave myself permission to be foolhardy, to be inappropriate, and to be downright chagrined by my choices. I also gave myself credit for the lessons learned, the revisions made, and the grace to apologize when I needed to. Mostly, I forgave myself for being imperfect, time and time and time again.
And you know what? I think it made me a better writer. If nothing else, it’s made me a better mom, a better wife and a better friend. The funny thing about forgiveness is that it frees you to just be. Who knows? Taking a moment to curse and scream and bust out with a little thumbsucking might not have been so bad. I do it all the time now – well, not the thumbsucking but I’m keeping that one in the chamber, just in case – and I don’t feel the least bit worse for wear.
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