All my life, all I wanted to be was a writer. I didn’t care what I wrote, where I wrote, why I wrote, I just wanted to write and that’s what I’ve done all my life: write. It’s the only way I can truly communicate, the only way I can actually express what I my mouth doesn’t dare to say. Writing is my healing, but writing is also my pain.
Ever since I was little I’ve been writing poems and short stories, and then longer stories, and eventually my words filled entire books. Day in and day out, from the age of 8 until pretty much now, the thing I’ve done consistently, never having a cheat-day, never missing an opportunity, I’ve been writing. It’s not like I have that much to say, that many stories to tell, or a crazy wild imagination where I could just invent entire alternative universes, but words have always given me comfort.
The way a pen lays in my hand, the way it sounds when a ball-pen scratches over the surface of a paper, I’ve always loved that sound, the way it feels when the bottom of my fist touches the paper while I make words come to life by simply connecting letters. I’ve never felt more alive as when I write, sitting on my desk from dusk til dawn writing (and this is quite literally what I do). If you think about it, it’s quite paradox, given that days could pass before my window and all I would do is write, not once leaving my desk. This might seem like a complete nightmare to some, that’s when I feel energized, motivated and that’s also the way I show my love the easiest: through words.
Lately, however, I can feel my dream slipping away. Eventually your body gets used to a certain type of abuse. For the past 20+ years I’ve been excessively writing and although I cannot imagine my life any other way, I’m in pain. I’ve spoken to numerous specialists and several tests were performed, MRIs and what have you but the results were always the same: they cannot see anything and therefore they cannot do anything, which is why they suggested to do absolutely nothing and let the pain take its course. The very course of keeping me up many nights and uncomfortable for months on end.
I could, if I really wanted to stop the pain, just stop doing what I do. I could come to a complete standstill and these have proven to be effective. I’ve tried that on numerous occasions when the pain simply has become unbearable. Then, usually the pain vanishes slowly and I don’t feel in agony anymore, but the second I pick up a pen and start writing, the pain comes rushing through my fingers, my forearm, my elbow… What bothers me more is that here is the one thing that I have dedicated my entire life to and yet my body is physically rejecting that very same thing.
We all have our battles to fight, we all have some sort of addiction, some sort of sickness, something that holds us back, something that hinders us. Some of it is genetic, some of it a social construct, some of it has to do with things we have not enough research about. But that’s just it, nobody is perfect and our surfaces are cracked and broken and whatever other metaphor you want to use to describe yourself. But that’s okay, because all the broken pieces together make a wonderful, outrageously beautiful mosaic, that is is your life. There is no perfect formula to make sure that you are always safe, always happy and always healthy, if there were wouldn’t we all want to have it? But that’s the beauty of life.
What I am trying to say is, take it easy, enjoy what you have, make the best of it and eventually take a look back at what you accomplished and truly take it in. Because what you do, where you are, that’s simply beautiful. All the broken shards of your life are spectacular, don’t you ever forget it.