I’m going to take a short break from my acerbic, politically partisan rants to tell you something – I have writers block. Just ask Lauren, who has had to gently remind me to upload my new drafts a few times (I’m sorry Lauren, I love you). I have writers block because I’m distracted. Here’s why:
I’m in a new relationship.
Even just admitting that to you guys…terrifying. Why is that the case, though? Why is it so hard for me to admit that I am softening a bit? Genuinely, I am asking. Tell me.
My friends know to come to me when their boyfriends are being shitty and they need the resolve to walk away. Or when someone is acting like a dick about social issues, and they want a witty yet well-researched retort to hit them with. They come with spirits that are crushed like broken twigs and fallen leaves, and they know I’ll breathe fire back into them. I love my friends for this, and I’m honored to be someone they can count on, who will be strong for them when they need it.
But no one comes to talk to me about poetry.
I have no less than 10 books of poetry sitting in stacks around my apartment. It’s not 100, sure, but it may be more than what you’d expect from someone who enjoys cyber bullying Mitch McConnell. Every single book of poetry has so many earmarked pages that the spines are broken because they can’t contain all of my favorites. Not many of my friends know this. Not because they wouldn’t care to know – I just never tell them.
I’ve had my heart broken. A lot. I can’t watch nature documentaries because I get too sad when the animals die. Before my grandma passed away, we used to take walks and hold hands. As she grew sicker, the walks got slower, and it took eternity to cross from one end of the street to the other, but it still didn’t feel long enough. I’m afraid I’ll never fully get over the trauma of sexual assault. I’m even more terrified of a partner learning this about me and deciding I’m too much, too sad, too fragile to be touched.
Why can’t I share these quieter, more breakable parts of me with anyone else? Why am I only able to express it when I’m typing at my desk, filling the page till its more black than white. I feel relived to have finally emptied this. To exhale. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath.
To be honest with you guys, publishing this is going to be hard for me. I’m going to have anxiety the morning it goes live, and I’ll be really nervous to do our usual Q&A on Instagram. I don’t like to talk about all of the gaps in my armor (and there are a vast many of them, believe me). I don’t like to be vulnerable. Because being vulnerable means you’ve opened yourself up for rejection. Not the funny you, or the dancing you, or the politically passionate you. Just you – the one that no matter what you chose to reveal during the day, goes to sleep with you at night. The real you.
I hate being vulnerable, and at the same time, I crave it. I hunger to be understood in all my layers, all the facets of who I am. The pieces I like to show, and those I try to bury deep in the cellar I’ve made within my soul. I don’t want to be afraid to share this. I want to be able to let go.
It just so happens that what I desire most has already been perfectly encapsulated by one of my favorite poets (of course). And so I leave you with this:
When was the last time someone ran their fingers through the knots of your soul? – Pavana