What happens to the writer who doesn’t write? The girl, with the words, who suddenly has none? The girl whose pen has suddenly ran out of ink?
I write this in the notes section of my phone as the blank page of my WordPress taunts me. It asks “Where I’ve been, where my secrets and stories are?” The answer is simple: they’re stuck. They’ve been stuck in the dark corners of my mind for about a year now. I don’t want to say “I lost my love for writing,” out loud. I don’t want to talk about how I let a job make feel so inadequate that I hated the one thing I’ve always been good at. I don’t want to discuss making myself so small for the comfort of others, that I almost couldn’t see myself. Why? Because once I put it on paper, it’s real.
So, I cut my hair. Then I cut it some more thinking this was the physical manifestation of getting the unhappiness out of my life. I had a year and I spent half of it using bleach and hair dye to cover up my overwhelming anxiety. I dedicated the last 6 months of 2018 to “trauma bonding” and pretending I was fine. Twelve shades of pink dye couldn’t cover up the fact that I was taking multiple moments out of my day to find somewhere to cry in Soho. Three different shades of blue hair couldn’t disguise that fact that I wasn’t taking care of myself. And, there wasn’t a hat that could hide the many tears I shed on the MTA in 2018.
I’ve been a lot of people— a lover, a sister, a daughter, a student, a voice, and now a guilty writer is one of them. The writer, who only writes on her phone. The journalist, who can only touch her journal when her world feels like it’s crumbling. The girl with the degree in words she can’t even write. The girl with the words she can only whisper. But, as my optimism slowly yet surely creeps back into my life, I wonder who I will be next.
There is no real ending to this. Maybe because this isn’t over. Or maybe, I’m just coming home.