Writing Away My Procrastinating

Back to the Business of Writing

This week, I wrote several blog posts after a long stretch of seeming oblivion. In fact, I was beginning to think I’d never start writing again, at the rate I was going; making excuses, practicing avoidance…in short, procrastinating interminably. It had gotten to the point where even thinking about opening a blog post, and laying my fingers on the keyboard was a piranha-filled lake reached by scaling a sheer cliff covered in broken glass.

Part of the change came when I remember to re-frame my thoughts; thinking, I get to write instead of the scarier, more foreboding, I have to write. Suddenly, sitting down at the computer became a reward rather than torture. When I was younger, writing was an adventure. I’m learning it’s up to me to keep it that way by refusing to let my thoughts turn dark; turn something wonderful terrifying.

That doesn’t mean I can’t allow my writing to take some dark, frightening turns now and then. A scene in one of my novels-in-progress where a man is flattened by a steam roller comes to mind. The truth is, life is messy. There are some horrible people in the world. It doesn’t mean I have to become horrible, or emulate the more onerous characters in my novels. Instead, I learn, not only from them, but from those who refuse to allow the darkness to envelope them.

Getting Back into Therapy

I also have to remember writing is my therapy. In my darkest hours, it wasn’t exercise, avoidance, or a therapist who lit the spark that brought me out of the darkness. It wasn’t other people (at least not directly) who initiated my healing, and taught me there was a better way than I’d learned at my mother’s knee. My writing was the therapist; the place I pulled all the garbage from my soul, and laid it out for closer inspection. In so doing, I found it wasn’t as frightening in the cold light of day, and better still, I wasn’t alone, and, in fact, never had been. There were others who shared my fears and traumas, but who, like me, were afraid, or ashamed to own up to them for fear of being ostracized, or humiliated.

Writing, and sharing helped me find my community. I learned how to finally connect with other people by being my raw, bruised, beaten, and even tenaciously stubborn self instead of pretending to be a mythical creature whose skin was unmarred by Life. In sharing the bumps and bruises, and even some of the oozing gashes of my psyche, I learned we all have a deep, yearning desire to be accepted, and yes, loved for who and what we are. Putting on a show for the world in a fruitless effort for acceptance is exhausting at best. If you ask me, it’s the number one cause of depression. The worst part is, it’s entirely preventable with a little education and compassion.

There needs to be a safe place to share thoughts, and those messy, unkempt feelings. Whether it’s on a therapist’s couch, a blog page, or a support group, everyone needs to know they can pull those demons out from under the bed, the closet, or the cedar chest, and stare them in the face, knowing no matter how bad it gets, how ugly the faces they make, there are people who understand, who can relate, and who are unimpressed by the grim picture of you those demons are trying to paint. You are not the demons or their images of you which are the product of years, or even decades of negative self-talk, often exacerbated by outside influences who were more broken than you’ll ever be.

Making Good on My Brokenness

The older I get, and the more I add to my cache of written words, the more I realize the people who did the most damage to my self-esteem were the ones who were so broken, they believed only by dragging others down into their own, personal cesspool could they feel better about themselves. There are times I’d like to ask some of them; “How’s that working for you?” But I know the answer. If they’ve continued to look for people like the woman I used to be; easy targets for ego shredding, they’re as broken and miserable as they were before I escaped their clutches to find my way out of that endless cycle of abuse and misery.

Unlike me, they didn’t, and don’t realize they have a choice. They don’t have to continue to abuse others, sucking each one dry before moving onto the next, in their mistaken belief it’ll improve their own self-image. Ugly is ugly. You can cover it with masks, makeup, and fancy trimmings, but unless you pull it out by its roots, it grows and festers inside you, consuming all that once was good and pure. I honestly believe everyone deserves a chance to find their own well-spring of beauty, but for many of us, it requires a choice.

The choice isn’t an easy one. Opening myself up to others, even from the relative safety of my computer screen meant laying raw the wounds I carried. It meant dropping the masks and walls in a way that meant never being able to go back to their dubious safety. Once the walls came crashing down, the masks ripped to shreds, I was exposed for all the world to see. The biggest surprise was how many treated me kindly instead of giving me more of the abuse I’d grown used to.

Flipping the Script on Abuse

Which brings up another of my pet peeves. No one, and I do mean NO ONE, should ever have to become accustomed to abuse. There should never be a reason for anyone to build walls, don masks, or pretend to be someone they’re not in order to survive. For those who already do, there shouldn’t be a reason to continue pretending, or avoid seeking help. The sad fact is, our society teaches us to sweep things under the rug, refrain from showing our feelings, and most of all, to never admit we’re struggling…with anything.

Which is why I continue to write; to share; to admit to my own struggles, and yes, to ask for help when I need it. I want that perfect world where everyone feels free to be their wonderful, perfectly imperfect self without fear of repercussions. Like anything else, someone has to take that first step; set the example, and create a safe place. I also know, I’m not the first, nor will I be the last. I am part of an army which grows stronger with each new recruit, but knows it has a long way to march before we rest.

Grateful, Every Moment of Every Day

My gratitudes today are:

1. I’m grateful for the walls and masks I wore, and eventually learned I could cast away for good.
2. I’m grateful for the opportunities to share my own struggles, stumbles, and poor choices if they can help even a single individual take their own sanity seriously, and tell Society to kiss their grits!
3. I’m grateful for all the support I found once I was willing to appear weak, broken, and unfinished.
4. I’m grateful for my wonderful, messy, perfectly imperfect, authentic self.
5. I’m grateful for the writing which led to sharing openly, and in person, in all my hot mess glory.

 

About the Author

Sheri Conaway is a Holistic Ghostwriter, and an advocate for cats and mental health. Sheri believes in the Laws of Attraction, but only if you are a participant rather than just an observer. Her mission is to Make Vulnerable Beautiful and help entrepreneurs touch the souls of their readers and clients so they can increase their impact and their income.

If you’d like to have her write for you, please visit her Hire Me page for more information. You can also find her on Facebook as Sheri Levenstein-Conaway Author