Nothing New (Maybe)

I used to stare at a white screen and feel a thrill of what words I’d write down. By the end of a good writing session, I’d have the start of a short story, novel, or an entire blog post written. Words would pour out of me from mysterious places. I was vulnerable, sad, joyful and hopeful all at once. 

Now, I feel a slight sense of dread and an empty sensation resembling someone with depression, but without the depression part. I feel like a writer, but I don’t feel like I have anything to write. It turns out that working through your big issues, and still having them but in a new and improved way, can take the spark of creativity out of you. 

I want to stop starting sentences with the two words “I feel.” I’d like to start saying “I know,” instead. But I’m never that certain. Feelings are all I have to offer, and they are often wrong. Not that being right is the point, but that leads me to my next quandary: what is the point? 

Does anyone care? Maybe. Would someone benefit from my words? Perhaps. (And see what I did there? Instead of saying maybe again, I changed it to perhaps. Is writing sometimes whittled down to the ability to choose between listing hypothetical and/or rhetorical questions and deciding on whether to answer with maybe each time, or use different words like maybe, perhaps, possibly.)

Am I writing into a void? 

Maybe. Perhaps. Possibly. 

I look back at what I’ve written about in the past and sometimes I cringe. I cringe at 24 year old Melinda who thought writing about divorce was somehow profound or new. A woman who had “lost” herself and went out to find it. Who among us hasn’t done that same thing? 

I could be wrong, but I am not so sure about that anymore. 

Because the truth is, I used to think I was a bit special. A bit of a martyr. I used to find solace in listing out my hardships: divorce, body dysmorphia, depression, infertility, blindness, stepmotherhood, oh my! 

Some go through life without any of these events. Some experience much worse, or pass away before they’re given a chance to experience them. So who am I to share what’s happened to me? 

I live a privileged life that is riddled with all the regular players: other women who most likely don’t go to therapy who make my own therapy sessions worth their weight in gold, a complicated family that is blended and hard to figure out how to manage (with the current divorce rate of 40-50% in America – which I googled – I’m not going to say anything special or above and beyond the current norm), family living on the other side of the political stratosphere than me, a good husband who sometimes pisses me off, and a few other issues that I’m really trying not to focus on or talk about – so there goes writing about my worst problems. They’re trite. They aren’t special.

And they’re nothing new. 

I could probably write one not very aesthetically pleasing post (with photos!) outlining how to survive the first year of hair growth after buzzing your head, but hello, that’s been done. And some people have had to endure a year of hair growth because of cancer, not just because of an emotional whim and a bout of depression. I know depression is something I could write about because I’ve been there. But no one with depression will read about someone else having had it before, and feel inspired out of it. No, depression is a pit that you either keep digging yourself into, or you scrape and fight and claw your way out of and your nails never grow back quite the same after being so ripped up and bloodied. 

I’m watching others I know go through divorce and I feel like all I can offer them anymore is this: Yeah, it’s going to be hard. Yup, it’s going to break you apart. But someday, though you don’t believe it right now and our brains and hearts aren’t even built to be able to see into the future this way, you will be okay and you will be in therapy for something else entirely and you will be a year into getting to know your therapist and one day you will casually mention your ex and they will stop you and say, “Melinda, I had no idea you were married before.” And it will be that NOT important in your life. 

But who, sleeping on a mattress in the basement after a ten year marriage, can even find room in their lives to believe in that? It’s hardly even worth saying. 

There are people with the same condition as me, but I don’t want to be a part of the “low vision” community any more. I am trying a new way of living that is hard to explain because while I am not in denial about my diagnosis on paper, I am choosing not to live it out, not to talk about it, and not to live as though I have an eye condition that will leave me blind. So far, my eyes have not progressed the way my specialist thought they should. I am experimenting with creating my own reality – is that blog worthy? I don’t even feel like it is. I feel like it MIGHT be, once I am 65 and still have full sight. It MIGHT be, if my eyes improve rather than get worse, even slowly. It MIGHT be worth mentioning, but what will it do to the person who has found so much comfort in the low vision community? What would it do to the person who also tried to just “not be blind” and read books on the placebo effect (reality check: every single thing is a placebo) and still wound up losing their vision, just like they were told they would at their first appointment after the diagnosis? I don’t have the words or the thoughts to share about blindness right now because I am not thinking about it much at all. 

And infertility! I’m not even going there. Not going to use up more than one line on this page. 

Even if I had a baby : at this point, having one would be so incredibly precious to me, that I doubt I’d find words to write about the experience. I see myself not wanting to share photos, not wanting to give the masses information about something so sacred. But sharing that opinion might offend those who share their babies on the internet without a thought. Do I think those people are horrible parents who don’t understand the gift they’ve been given? No, not at all. Would my words be perceived that way? MAYBE PERHAPS POSSIBLY. 

It’s not even judgment from others or offending people I’m afraid of. I’m not afraid of much (except for dreams about zombie apocalypses, in which I wake up crying and my husband has to hold me – which may have happened not one hour ago) and if I had to list my fears, others opinions of me would be far down the line. It’s more that I don’t have the energy or the care to even bother. Not because I am depressed, but because I am tired. I am tired in a way that is perfectly acceptable right now. I am in a hibernation period. I am not “growing spiritually” anymore (though a year ago, all I could even think about was spirituality). I am not especially wise – I am only 34 years old and slightly embarrassed at all of the “wisdom” I spouted off into the ether so far. Why add to it? 

And yet, I feel so old. And anyone over the age of 34 will tell me that I am a baby. (I’m either months away from being labeled geriatric or so young people wave their hand at me in a “bless her heart” sort of way. What’s a mid thirties woman to do?)

So I’m not really old, not really young, not really a parent, not really blind, not really great at writing, not really sure what to do next. I’m FINE (f***ed up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical, according to the poet in the book series I am reading), I’m reading a lot thanks to my mom introducing me to the Inspector Gamache murder mystery series (she called them “the Penny books,” which I adore), and I’m going on walks, trying to stay moderately healthy and eating when I am hungry. 

I have lovely friends, a dog I adore, and enough challenges with teenagers to keep me busy. 

The next thing to do would be to talk about my husband now, no? I adore him, too. There are also times when I can’t even stand hearing him chew his food. But the thing is: I never picture someone else. Ever. He is it, whether he is driving me crazy, making me cry, making me orgasm, or dancing with me in the kitchen. He is mine and I am his (but mostly we are ourselves) and we are just fine with that. I am not even sure I could muster up more than a paragraph about marriage at this point, because I am still learning. I know sex actually does get better (and calmer), trust does grow (and ebb and flow), and even on days when I wonder if I made a mistake, I know I haven’t. That isn’t exactly going to go viral, now is it? 

That’s all I’ve got for now. Possibly ever? What could even come next, I have no idea. I really like this spot though, because I am okay. I have no idea how to end this, because in the past I’d say cheers to something and end with a slightly hopeful and witty statement about life that I came up with all on my own (hoping for a metaphorical gold star or even better, a smiley face hand written from my first grade teacher). But I don’t have that in me anymore. So I’ll just say that this is the end – of this.