When you don’t know what to say
You brainstorm. You bullshit. You say nothing at all.
Photo by Aron Visuals from Unsplash
“The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.”
I’ve been spending a lot of time this week thinking about what I should write. I should write about the Black Lives Matter movement and present myself as an ally. That seemed like the most obvious thing and the best way to use my skills to make a difference. But then on Thursday, I had a panic attack and was basically out of commission for the next two days. Everything suddenly seemed too much.
Not to mention the guilt. The guilt of feeling anything not related to the current movement and wondering if my exhaustion was symptomatic of my privilege. Wondering if I was worth anything at all, and hating myself for being unable to suck it up and keep living like everyone else. My trauma is not greater than the collective of black lives around the world, so why was I unable to function and see past it?
Photo by Adrian Swancar from Unsplash
There’s not a writer’s handbook on how to write for people who have experienced traumatic events. There are plenty of tips and tricks for how to write about trauma, but what about when you want to be a writer and you just want to write about anything else?
Literally everything says just to write. Write even if it’s bad. Write through the slog of not wanting to write. If you can’t write, read. If you can’t read, you’re wasting your time. Pick another dream.
To be honest, I’ve never been so disheartened in my life as a writer. And I still don’t have an answer to this question of what I should write. Because, plainly, I haven’t written anything. Writing this week was too hard. Almost everything was too hard, breathing and eating and waking up, but I’m here now, typing something that may mean absolutely nothing, but that’s a win for me. I don’t know what it says about success or about my longevity as a writer. I don’t know if I’m writing into the void. Whatever it is, it’s better than staying in bed, doing nothing at all.
Saying I haven’t written anything is partially a lie: I wrote the piece below as a response to President Trump’s actions on Monday against peaceful protesters in Washington, D.C.
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”
To make a tempest out of
Temples, a perversion of
Stained windows and sacred
Text is to hold a
Bible between
Your fingers and
Forget that Moses
Unleashed plague on
Egypt for the slavery of the
Hebrews, that he claimed first
Born sons for crimes less than police
Officers kneeling on necks. It is to
Claim that Jesus challenged
Roman rule and overturned
Tables in the name
Of the Lord without acknowledging
A walk to a church through
Gassed streets riddled with
Rubber bullets. It is to
Threaten murder and call it as
Justice. It is to swear an
Oath, under “God,” and
Ignore the way Hell feels
Beneath bare feet.
