Writer's block

You've lost count of how many months have gone by, without you writing a single word. You promised yourself though, this would be it, this would be the day you'd finally pull your shit together, sit down and write. First of April. Your birthday. But until now, nothing. Not one idea on what to write about. Not one word. Just his smelly sweat.

You have to go out, get some air. A walk through the park, that ought to help.

What's happening to me? Perhaps i don't have it in me anymore. Perhaps i should give up this grandiose notion, that i'm worthy to become a writer. Perhaps i should just give up. - you thought.

The goose at the lake was giving you a sad look, or so you thought. Perhaps she was as disappointed of you, as you were of yourself.

But why do i feel this sting in my heart everytime i think about giving up?

What is it about writing, that gets me so triggered? So obsessed?

Long back, walking through the park meant gathering information. You'd come up with so many ideas by just observing people, you'd imagine how they felt, what burden were they carrying, what made them the happiest. You would create these little stories in your head. As soon as you got home, you'd connect the dots, sit down and write.

You would go to dates with guys to talk, so that if they were interesting enough, you could use them as characters for your stories, with minor adaptions. You'd find out how they tick, what their fears were, whether they'd craved their mother's or their father's love more as a child. They would talk about their traumas and you'd wonder how they had armoured themselves emotionally. You'd observe their face, trying to photograph their features with your eyes, so that you'd know with what feeling to relate what facial expression. They thought you were empathetic, and sure, you were, you had to be. How else would they open up?

You like to believe you cared as well. At the time that was the fastest method you thought of peeling the onion, uncover the different layers of personality and understand more.

Why did i relate everything with writing?

Once not just the idea but the entire story, the characters, the storyline, the ending appeared in front of your eyes. It was like watching a movie. You just needed to obey and write. And you did, like a woman possessed. While reading it, you were stoked. It was good, really good.

And you got confident. And lazy. Every time you had this wonderful idea, you thought, 'It's okay, the next train of ideas it's gonna come later, i can let this go, don't feel like writing now anyway.' It became a vicious cycle. Now your ideas are flowing more like peanut butter than like water.

Perhaps from not using that part of the brain that much, he thought 'Let's just shade down the density of those brain cells there, let them wither'.

 How do i bounce back now?

 You feel like you've betrayed yourself.

Do i perhaps need to learn new, sophisticated words, at stake of sounding arrogant, khem khem, presumptuous?

But writing it's not just about the words, you knew that much.

What was blocking it?

Don't, just, don't go there, - you whispered to yourself, as your breathing got heavier, as your heart started racing faster. No, no, no, no… - you whispered, desperately seeking control over your thoughts.

The scratch on your left arm wasn't healed yet, that was the proof, that night did happen. Not the only proof though. You could not forget his body odor, that foul smelling sweat you'd recognize everywhere. You said no, you screamed for help, no help came. You were left all alone with him, and he did with you what he pleased. No, no, no, this can't be happening to me, - was all you could think. He was all over you that night, but you just want to forget. So you crack up the best smile you can muster and repeat 'Everything is fine, nothing bad happened, just a bad dream, everything is fine, nothing bad happened, just …'

You find some peace of mind, or so you think. His body odor. It comes back again. The only detail you remember so vividly. Because everything else from that night you've buried so deep, not even you can find it. But that odor. And you ask yourself naively 'How does his smell feel so real, if it was just a nightmare?'

But you can't open your wound, you can't begin to examine consciously the raw meat of what you're so ashamed of. You'd rather live in the blissful, ignorant unsconsciousness of your pitiful life, thinking that a writer's block is your biggest problem. You wouldn't open your wound, but the bullet was still inside. You're aching. Just because no one knew, doesn't it mean it didn't happen.

'Nothing happened, everything is fine, nothing happen…' - you repeat. It hurts to see you like that. If you'd only just talk to someone.

You promised yourself, you'd write again. For your birthday. A simple promise to keep, you thought back then. And you sat down again, in hope for an idea that would transport you far away, perhaps Mars.

Why not write about colonizing Mars? - you thought. His touch, no, that didn't happen, that never happened, i was home that night, no, i wasn't r…, no, i am doing fine, i can't be the victim, i'm not that weak,- you tried to regulate your breath and smile.

Writing used to me make so happy, it felt like i had wings to fly, - you thought. Now it's the writing's fault, keeps bringing stupid fears up, i have to stop, maybe another day, - you put down your notebook and you head towards the shower.

You needed to feel clean again, for that you had to wash your skin properly, make sure it feels pure, untouched. His dirty hands. For a moment you hope to even slip when you get out of the tub and hit your head. And actually forget.