Am I A Writer?

          Am I a writer? Am I really a writer? I haven’t written much more than jounals and letters to long-distance friends and family. If I’m not producing, am I still a writer?

          This time last year I was on the cusp of an emotional storm. Spiraling into debilitating depression, I clung to the few things I thought were unchanging. My marriage. My family. My writing. My faith. I clung and I tried to force joy and purpose into and from them. The more I tried, the greater the pain and, ironically, the greater the emotional disconnect.

          Then I had a realization that made all the disparate pieces of emotional turmoil fall into place. The relationship I’d assumed was based on mutual caring and respect and goodwill was, in fact, more a relationship of control and manipulation. In the throes of emotional shock and riddled with confusion and uncertainty, I made a decision to separate from my husband. I realized that only by removing myself from the situation could I ever hope to change it.

          And I did hope to change it. I wanted to transform an unhealthy, destructive relationship into a mutually caring and beneficial one. While I hoped my husband would desire the same and be willing to work through the issues troubling our relationship, I knew I could only make choices for me. I chose emotional health.

          The ensuing months were a roller coaster ride. I felt out of control. I was numb . . . or in agony. I wallowed in despair . . .or clambered to a place of hope. I clung to a few friends or family . . . or I isolated myself. Up and down. Back and forth. Little by little, I made my way through the conflicting emotions and issues. Eventually I found direction. Maybe not full resolution yet, but at least hope and direction.

          And the one constant? (Besides my faith, that is. My faith is actually the bedrock that has kept my from sinking into despair and shame.) Next to my faith, what consistently persisted in my life? Writing. It took awhile for me to recognize it, but I never really lost my writing.

          Yes, I lost the ability to create stories. I even lost some of my coherency. What had been easy, became hard. And along with the struggle to put words to paper/screen came the whispers of despair and futility. Why try? I wasn’t a “real” writer, after all. No one was paying to read my work. No one was interested in what I had to say. Half the time I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. It didn’t matter. It probably wasn’t even worth reading.

          All that is probably true. I kept writing anyway. I kept fighting the undertow trying to pull me into a silent sea. I journaled; I talked with friends, in real time and chat time. I read voraciously. Mostly non-fiction related to my issues, but now more fiction.

          Words are a writer’s sustenance and fruit. Words , both the creating and the devouring, kept this writer alive. The need to put words to what I was experiencing kept me journalling. That helped me work through the issues and to see them more clearly. The have-to task of writing this blog each week kept me struggling to find words, kept me from giving up. The multitudinous self-help and relational books I read gave me words for my experiences. That, in turn, kept my journaling. Around and around, that spiral of reading and writing, writing and reading drew this writer upwards toward a healthier future.

          I didn’t recognize it until recently. When, a few weeks ago, Kitty and Shonna asked if I wanted to take a break from having to blog every week, I almost panicked. Yes, I wanted, even craved, a break. It would be so nice to not have to come up with something to write each week. Instinctively, though, I knew removing that writing task would spiral me back into that numb shock-like state. Just like a physical therapist pushing, cajoling and ordering a stroke victim to move their finger, lift that eyebrow, so writing this post each week heeps me engaged with life. Writing is my lifeblood.

          Answer: Yes! I am a writer! Are you?