Today I was made the blunt of a joke. It has taken me years to get to the point where I am now. The point where I am writing everyday. I may not post here, but I write everyday. I was asked what I was doing with my career, and for the first time outside of my home I was able to say "I am working on becoming a writer."
Up til now I have only said it around close friends and in my own home. My PTSD keeps me from sharing details about myself. In public, or online. I keep details about myself very secret. I keep my life out of conversations, my own family doesn't know where I live. I have a fear that if details are known about me then people can find me, and hurt me. But if I remain hidden to the world, then I remain hidden to the pain. When I was reborn in the army, the first thing I remember them teaching us is OPSEC. Operational Security. The lesson was easy enough to learn, any details the enemy finds out about you the easier it is for them to defeat you. Travel plans, favorite bar, mother's name, future station after you PCS (Permanent Change of Station).
That lesson carried on into the civilian world, and then some. There are details of my life I keep from everyone. No one knows everything about me, they can't, and won't. I keep people close enough that they feel connected, and far enough away that I am able to control the flow of information about myself to them. My life story can be written by no one person.
Opening up today, to two strangers, was beyond a challenge. I felt the words slip out before I had a chance to stop and sift through them. I was unable to analyze my thoughts to ensure they couldn't be followed back to me. I said it, again though. The first time I said it, I was shocked, the second I was hating myself for saying it again.
"I am working on becoming a published writer."
Before I could finish my sentence the laughter started. I was poked and prodded, I was judged, and I knew what was coming. The stream of questions, I had given these strangers the keys to a vault I had kept a secret, and they laughed all the way to my core.
But something happened, I didn't crumble. I didn't die, I was attacked, but I lived. As they were laughing, I stood there, and I had an episode. The trigger was an odd one, it was the accent of a middle eastern man. My hands tightened, blazing sweat ran down my face, and my vision went white. I was in a store room, full of pallets of boxes, they were gone. Replaced with the warm tan colored towers of the Mosques, the boxes were now stones piled high, the voices and laughter were now the prayers blasted across the landscape seven times a day. Everyday.
They called it a hobby, and laughed. But I was no where near them, I had taken the fastest flight to another land. A land I have been to far too many times. A land everyone in that room had been. Then I was shot back, back into my body, back into that store room.
A small laughter came from the dark recesses of my mind.
A laughter I have not heard in many years. It was me. It was my laughter.
It was the same laughter I had before I joined. the laughter that would fight to escape whenever someone used to tell me, that I was too fat to join the army, or too dumb to get a degree. It was the laughter of a challenge being accepted. I may be fat, I may be dumb, I may even be too broken to live up to your standards. But there is one thing I love, and that is a challenge. And there isn't anything in this world that can stop me from proving you wrong. I was told by the recruiter I was too fat for the army, two months later I showed up 90 lbs lighter. I was told I was too dumb to get a degree and make it in life, I have a Bachelors in Computer Sciences with an emphasis on Networking, and an Associates in Graphic Design. My mind may be shattered, and I forget way too much but I live on my own, and I take care of my own.
Their laughter was met with my own, they trampled my dreams, they betrayed my trust. That was OK with me, I just got the motivation I needed to watch you choke on those words.
I bid you all a good night, I have midnight oils to burn, and a challenge to defeat.
Up til now I have only said it around close friends and in my own home. My PTSD keeps me from sharing details about myself. In public, or online. I keep details about myself very secret. I keep my life out of conversations, my own family doesn't know where I live. I have a fear that if details are known about me then people can find me, and hurt me. But if I remain hidden to the world, then I remain hidden to the pain. When I was reborn in the army, the first thing I remember them teaching us is OPSEC. Operational Security. The lesson was easy enough to learn, any details the enemy finds out about you the easier it is for them to defeat you. Travel plans, favorite bar, mother's name, future station after you PCS (Permanent Change of Station).
That lesson carried on into the civilian world, and then some. There are details of my life I keep from everyone. No one knows everything about me, they can't, and won't. I keep people close enough that they feel connected, and far enough away that I am able to control the flow of information about myself to them. My life story can be written by no one person.
Opening up today, to two strangers, was beyond a challenge. I felt the words slip out before I had a chance to stop and sift through them. I was unable to analyze my thoughts to ensure they couldn't be followed back to me. I said it, again though. The first time I said it, I was shocked, the second I was hating myself for saying it again.
"I am working on becoming a published writer."
Before I could finish my sentence the laughter started. I was poked and prodded, I was judged, and I knew what was coming. The stream of questions, I had given these strangers the keys to a vault I had kept a secret, and they laughed all the way to my core.
But something happened, I didn't crumble. I didn't die, I was attacked, but I lived. As they were laughing, I stood there, and I had an episode. The trigger was an odd one, it was the accent of a middle eastern man. My hands tightened, blazing sweat ran down my face, and my vision went white. I was in a store room, full of pallets of boxes, they were gone. Replaced with the warm tan colored towers of the Mosques, the boxes were now stones piled high, the voices and laughter were now the prayers blasted across the landscape seven times a day. Everyday.
They called it a hobby, and laughed. But I was no where near them, I had taken the fastest flight to another land. A land I have been to far too many times. A land everyone in that room had been. Then I was shot back, back into my body, back into that store room.
A small laughter came from the dark recesses of my mind.
A laughter I have not heard in many years. It was me. It was my laughter.
It was the same laughter I had before I joined. the laughter that would fight to escape whenever someone used to tell me, that I was too fat to join the army, or too dumb to get a degree. It was the laughter of a challenge being accepted. I may be fat, I may be dumb, I may even be too broken to live up to your standards. But there is one thing I love, and that is a challenge. And there isn't anything in this world that can stop me from proving you wrong. I was told by the recruiter I was too fat for the army, two months later I showed up 90 lbs lighter. I was told I was too dumb to get a degree and make it in life, I have a Bachelors in Computer Sciences with an emphasis on Networking, and an Associates in Graphic Design. My mind may be shattered, and I forget way too much but I live on my own, and I take care of my own.
Their laughter was met with my own, they trampled my dreams, they betrayed my trust. That was OK with me, I just got the motivation I needed to watch you choke on those words.
I bid you all a good night, I have midnight oils to burn, and a challenge to defeat.
For a long time I didn't tell people my favorite thing to do was write: because they either wanted to know what my Great American Novel would be about or...they laughed. So I let my writing do the talking. If someone saw a piece I wrote for a newspaper or magazine, I answered their questions. But I rarely volunteered it. Funny thing is, for every "professional" sounding piece I've written, the ones I hear the most about are the personal ones, written from the heart.
ReplyDeleteI once read a quote which snuffed out my internal conflict over not being an "important" writer and turned writing into pure joy. "A job is what you do. It's not who you are." I work 40 hours a week at a job but I am a writer. No matter what anyone else thinks.
Write on, friend. :)
This blog is from the heart, that is why I very rarely edit it. I leave it raw and full of mistakes because I let the emotions write the posts. Emotions can't speak, and when they do it's usually all jumbled and doesn't make sense lol But when I write for myself, I feel like I am transported to a world where everything makes sense. feel like I am where I am supposed to be, writing. I might never be one of the greats. But I will be as happy as the greats as long as I write.
ReplyDeleteSee? I was right Elijah- writer in the making. The raw quality is definitely something to hold onto, that's the life breath of any text. The previous entry (on anger) was strong like that. If you live strong emotions it can 't come out polished, unless you repress all the muck and messiness. Better be authentic, the rest will follow..
ReplyDelete