I have always loved words. I use too many words where a few would be more than adequate. Some call it chatty or loquacious. Many find it annoying or condescending or as an attempt to control the conversation. I find stringing together words in fun and interesting ways pretty incredible. When speaking, I tend to be outwardly calm. I can be witty. I can occasionally speak words that cause raucous laughter. When I write them, however…I get to reread them and play with them; manipulate them, rearrange them, change tense, add a pause, add inflection, find a better word or phrase. The best part? I have complete control over my words. I choose grammar and tone, cadence and flow. It’s kind of the best, if we’re being honest. So, why do I keep it to myself or feel so discouraged in my writing in a more public setting? Well, here’s an origin story for you. There are no adamantium claws (lookin’ atchu, Wolverine!), or falling in love with a madman (Oh, Harley Quinn…), no animal attacks, insect bites or family vendetta. Simply a girl, in rural New Mexico with a complicated story, trying to find her voice.
My teens were rough. Partly self-inflicted. Lots outside of my control. None of it was what I truly wanted or needed. Youth is wasted on the young; hindsight is 20/20, and all that. I can’t tell you the moment I realized writing was where I felt a release. Almost an unburdening. It’s important to note, I LOVE music. There are not enough ways for me to tell you that I cannot live without music. Music is oxygen. Not just an artist speaking to my very soul, but also being part of a band or orchestra. I was a band nerd - all caps. Band was a respite. In the orchestra pit for a theater production…the best! Marching Band competition…yes, please! I was playing someone else’s music, though. I never had any interest in composing or writing notes on a staff. What I did write was lyrics. In reality, it was poetry, but in my young mind, someone else was going to write wonderful, moody melodies to my words. In hindsight, what with it being 20/20 and all, I was getting my feelings out in a medium to which I felt the closest. Through my adult eyes, I see that I was indeed writing poetry. I have a box somewhere with scraps of paper, post-its, old to-do lists…all with my prose scrawled upon it. I do not remember ever feeling the need to let anybody else see it, let alone write a banger to my teenage angst. Clearly, I was processing
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When I was seventeen, I dropped out of high school. (A story for another day, perhaps.) I was living with friends and then in my car. I had a few friends who let me sneak into their homes to shower and such. I was working, so I had money to eat and put gas in the car, but winter was coming. New Mexico winters aren’t necessarily mild, depending what part of the state you’re in. I had recently met my biological father and I rang him up to tell him of my predicament. It was decided I would move up to Santa Fe with him. Whether that was the best choice is a subject for another lengthy writing. For whatever reason, the sperm donor did not want me to attend high school in Santa Fe. He did want me to finish, however. So I reached out to my mom and she hooked me up with the principal to the alternative high school in my hometown. The principal asked me to write an essay. I couldn’t tell you what the essay was about. Maybe it was a persuasive essay, to convince her I would be able to handle doing my senior year through the mail? We were about to do something unconventional for the time, and she needed some reassurance her efforts would not be wasted on me. Whatever the subject, because of the essay, she was sold on the idea of sending me my work via mail and I’d turn around and mail it back. I did my entire senior year in 3 months. You know the old adage, “They may not remember what you said, but they’ll remember how you made them feel.”? I can’t remember the assigned topic of the essay, but I remember how she made me feel about how impressed she was with it. It gave her all the confidence that I would be able to handle “schooling” myself without much supervision. Since supervision was literally at zero, I guess she was right.
After that, I wrote. And wrote some more. Sometimes on good old fashioned paper, most often stored onto a zip disk. Even if I could get my hands on said disk, you had to have a special drive to read the disk. It was not very forward thinking, on my part. I’m not purporting to be the writer of a generation and those disks may be worth something someday. Absolutely not. I’m just saying, I wonder what 19-year-old Amy was spilling onto the page. Not of much interest to anybody but myself, but I think my writing style has changed a bit. I’d be curious to compare and contrast the Amy of yesteryear to the highly-emotional, darkly humored, life-hasn't-got-me-down-yet-but-it's-sure-tried thread that winds through what I write now. I was painfully shy and very guarded, so nobody was seeing anything I wrote anyway.
Fast forward a bit and I’m a mom. I have the urge to write, but I don’t have the bandwidth to write creatively. So, I begin writing a blog. Classic Blogspot, baby. It should also be noted, and folks who know me can attest to the fact that I have strange things happen to me regularly. Strange people, strange occurrences, strange exchanges…just strangeness. Honestly, I believe it’s because I want it. The strangeness. I invite it when I can. I revel in the strangeness of humans. Aha! That’s what I was going to write about! My daily adventures with my boys and/or interactions with this strange world. That’s what I did and it was a wonderful outlet for me. I realized my jam was story-retelling. Not poetry or fiction. I was sticking to the blog, though I had a secret desire to write a book. I’m not sure what would go into the aforementioned book, but it was a secret goal that has haunted me since the thought bubble containing “I should write a book,” popped up over my head. I recall reading humorist David Sedaris in my early twenties and realizing homie is just talking about himself! Genius! Not a lot of research involved, if any. You speak on what you know - yourself! When you know about getting a sunburn on your junk on your first foray into a nudist colony community, you write about it. (That was David, not I. My junk stays safely tucked away when the sun is out, thankyouverymuch.) Anecdotal, observational humor. I now recognize crafting a story that could otherwise be retold in a very boring, stale way is creative writing. For having never fancied myself as the possessor of a well-developed imagination, I wasn’t even aware that I was being “creative”. What I had chalked up to being observant, translated into having enough interesting detail stored away in the ol’ noggin that can be used to weave a tale that could have otherwise been objectively, mildly and blandly capable of eliciting a chuckle. Maybe a half-smile.
My first blog post that gave me an inkling that other people might enjoy reading my version of events, was an account of my being locked inside a BigLots! bathroom by an employee who turned the lights out, AFTER she noticeably did not wash her hands and then LOCKED THE DOOR FROM THE OUTSIDE. I had to threaten to call 911 when I called the store repeatedly and they did not believe that I wasn’t a fellow employee pulling a prank. I would love nothing more than to give you the copy/paste treatment of that blogpost, or even a few excerpts, but alas! My blog was stolen by THE RUSSIANS. (This paragraph has many words in all caps. I regret nothing.) That’s right. Russians. Before Cambridge Analytica, Meta, tampered-with elections and the like, somebody in Russia DELETED my blog. I logged in to see all my posts had been deleted. Devastating. In the blog analytics, you could see where in the world your blog was accessed and the interactive map Carmen Sandiego’ed all the way to Russia. Did I save it anywhere else? Don’t be silly. I learned absolutely nothing from my zip disk era. This was in the early 2010’s…maybe even late 2000’s. How young and naive I was *le sigh*. Anyway, what I was getting at is I had so much positive feedback from that post, that I found some confidence, brief as it was. That confidence was quickly deflated by a Political Science professor that knocked me on a loooong paper that was part of the final. Her issue: using words she didn’t believe I had in my vocabulary, which made me feel inferior in brand new and innovative ways. Thanks, Teach! It probably shouldn’t have knocked me down like it did, but I was a mom of toddlers, still uncomfortable in my own skin and dealing with what I now know to be symptoms of PTSD, depression and anxiety. I also didn’t finish college, in no small part due to the discouragement I felt from that teacher, which would always be a mental stumbling block. I got an A in a really difficult class, that did not boast a high passage rate, but having my writing disparaged took me down. The A didn’t matter. How ridiculously mentally ill! My blog getting deleted, clinched it, though. As I think back on it, I don’t believe I made a conscious decision to just stop writing. It just became relegated to an occasional, wordy social media post.
Now a moment from our sponsors:
At this point, I would like to call out the MVP of my lived experience: The Husband. I don’t know about you and your dating prowess, but within days of being struck by this dude's presence and both of us having decided this is going to be a serious relationship that we both hope leads to marriage, you tell him everything. Like everything, everything. Being from a culture that brought me a lot of shame for actions done to me, not by me, I couldn’t stand the thought of a potential speed bump later on in our relationship because he wasn’t aware of my past. I believe the phrase is, “warts and all”. I showed up on day 3 of knowing this person very much giving a nose of witch vibe. It was giving toad. It was giving the weird warts you would get as a kid on your knees or knuckles. It was giving take it or leave it, buddy, but I really hope you take it. Warts and all. And by golly he did. Then he showed me his. Warts. He showed me his warts. Obviously. After baring our souls to one another rather unceremoniously, but tenderly and safely, we decided we had an accord! I would be bound to this man of awful bedhead, excellent movie quote usage and boundless patience forever and ever, amen. And because of his poor choices previous to this, he would be bound to me. No take backs. No returns. No refunds. Also because of his poor choices and completely unbeknownst to him, it was going to be way harder than he thought to stay bound because I’m crazier than even I knew I was back then. It should be noted, however, the policy remains the same: no take backs, returns or refunds. (Or exchanges, while we’re at it.) He’s done it, though. So far he’s put up with 20 years of my shenanigans and our shenanigans. I oftentimes shenanigan solo and leave him in my wake. Like I said. MVP. He has always been my biggest ra-ra guy. I couldn’t be sane without him, at this point. He’s like a prescription for my self-esteem. (Maybe I’ll turn this seemingly out of place paragraph into a stand alone…we shall see.)
Back to the scheduled programming…
Shortly after dropping out of college for the second time, I saw a social media post of a high school friend with one of our teachers from high school and I became overwhelmed with emotion. I was shocked at how emotional I was. In true stalker form, I googled him and within 30 seconds had his work email. I wrote, rewrote and rewrote again approximately 340 bajillion times what I hoped would be a welcomed message from a student from the past. I was beyond nervous to be so boldly reaching out to him after all these years. I suppose I should explain. I had the same teacher for Honors English for two years in a row in high school. He introduced me to NewsRadio (RIP Phil Hartman), the importance of root words and the importance of your own words. I was in the middle of a full teenage mental breakdown and my boyfriend suggested I talk to this teacher. I was cutting myself and going through stuff I didn’t understand. One day at lunch, I came to this young teacher, and he listened. That’s it. He listened and then asked if he could consult someone he trusted with some of my issues. He helped me through a process that was extremely difficult, but he never made me feel badly for drawing him into my drama. He continuously checked on me throughout the year. He was an example of a good person being a good person for the sake of doing the right thing because it was the right thing to do. That might seem like word salad, but he was just being good. The end. So basic, but something I hadn’t necessarily experienced in my other interactions with men. He made his classroom one in which you wanted to be. Not just inhabit the room. Be. That’s pretty powerful.
If you recall, I did my senior year through the mail through the alternative high school, not the school all my friends attended. I rode the train back home to stand outside the theater where my graduation, that I had no intention of going to, was being held. It was hot and I walked downtown and waited for someone who looked like they knew of what they spoke and asked where I could pick up my diploma. Like a fool. Apparently they don’t give you the diploma whilst you stroll across the stage! Having not attended the ceremony practice or, I don’t know, school, I had no idea. The single soul I spoke to offhandedly told me where the diplomas could be picked up and feeling dejected, I left. Did I mention it was hot? I began the long walk back to my parents place. On that return trip, however, I saw that teacher as he jogged past me. He did a slight double-take, shook it off and mustered a friendly hello. I could tell from his expression he recognized me but unsure from where, given this unlikely path-crossing, as I had dropped out and moved away as far as he knew. I remember smiling. He didn’t know it, but I had graduated. He thought I gave up or gave in to something else and understandably so. I took comfort in the fact that I knew that if it ever came up for any reason, it was verifiable that I had graduated and that fact couldn’t be a point of disappointment. Time machine forward and I’m sending this man a multi-paragraph email. I also sent him a link to my blog, informing him of my love for writing. His classes were where I learned to enjoy writing for myself, outside of a school assignment. I was being uncharacteristically gutsy. I ran the risk of coming off as a stalkerish ex-student in all the Hollywood ways. I ran the risk of not getting a response. I ran the risk of getting a disappointing response. There was risk, okay. That’s the point I’m trying to make. It felt very risky. As a risk averse person, particularly in the realm of guilt or disappointment, it was supes uncomfortable. But I hit send. And there was nothing. For. Several. Days.
Finally, when I had stopped dreading opening my inbox, there it was. A reply. A not very short reply, to boot! I have this fear, which I understand is not unique to me, of being judged. I’m not sure if any of you can relate, but it isn’t the criticism, it’s the judgment. The professor didn’t give me constructive criticism to perhaps use more accessible language, but instead judged me as a person she couldn’t imagine possessing an extensive vocabulary. I felt, say it with me, “Not ENOUGH.” Never enough. What was this beloved teacher going to tell me to ruin my day? I would love to be able to tell you verbatim, but ‘member the Russians? They deleted my email, too. “You may not remember what they said, but you’ll remember how they made you feel.” Damn those old adages. I remember one line and then I’ll sum up, “Of the pantheon of students I have had, I often wondered what happened to you and hoped that you were happy.” Written like a real English teacher. I had mentioned in the email that I never felt validated in my writing because a degree felt impossibly attainable. He made me feel exactly as he had back in the 90’s; seen, heard and valuable. I was thrilled he remembered me simply because that immediately relieved some of the potential awkwardness of misjudging his capacity to remember everything I remembered. He told me he read my blog and encouraged me to continue writing and not be held back by the unnecessary prerequisite of a degree to underline my talent. {Insert copious amounts of crying emoji’s. Thank you.} We had a few more exchanges over the years, but eventually as many things do, our communication faded. No regrets. I sent that email and received a gift in return.
As I was saying, a lot happened and a lot changed. Including our fourth son and his passing. Before he passed, there were three and a half weeks of the unknown. He was very early and ill-equipped for this world. Instead of trying to keep everybody informed via text or email, we created a Facebook group that anybody who wanted to know could follow along on our NICU journey. I wrote as best I could about our time as in-between parents. I say in-between because we had very little say over the outcome or care of our son. The hospital did a wonderful job of supporting us, but he was too sick for us to be even part-time parents. We handed over our whole son to capable individuals who lacked magic or miracles in their arsenal of healing arts. There was no lack of effort or level of care that would have changed the fact we, as parents, had to make the decision to let him go. A very grim prognosis that would ultimately end in his suffering and imminent death was what we had to look forward to. He didn’t deserve that. We didn’t deserve that. It was a whole bunch of undeservedness going around. We survived it and I wrote on the group page for a while afterwards. That I have access to still. I’m a little saddened by the fact that it’s so heavy, as opposed to my more lighthearted Blogspot, but I’m grateful I have a journal of those days. Many beautiful things came from that mucky span of time. Fertile soil, I guess.
Back to the random post on socials for the foreseeable future. Except not. Late July, I did just that; a random long post. About a mountain lion on my back porch. Then it caught a little traction. Messages and comments came in and they were coming from everywhere, including a reporter sharing with me that she’s on the hunt for a job opening for me at her station. To write. Who? Me?! Surely, you jest! Does this chick know a thing about me? No. Will it turn into anything? I don’t know. What I do know is that the day before Sasha graced us with her feline presence, I had been gut punched by the news that my abuser was dying. Didn’t see that coming, huh? It is an incredibly uncomfy place to occupy, knowing someone who caused such damage is shuffling off this mortal coil without so much as a backward glance of accountability. Would you like to know what I did in anticipation of the impending Big Sad that was about to darken my world? I wrote. I typed. I unloaded. I took my best friend's advice and wrote it out. I was in uncharted emotional territory and I couldn’t let it fill me up and overtake me. I had started exercising that muscle with more intent and passion than I had ever done before. Just in time to write a silly little thing about a lion. The DAY the reporter essentially underscored everything positive I had ever been told about my writing by suggesting a future job, shifting the focus from the familiar discouragement to which I had clung, I found out my abuser was dead. The riptide of unresolved trauma and unreconciled emotion that I had expected to knock me off balance, barely lapped at my feet. I have no delusions that there may still be some choppy waters ahead, to continue the water metaphor. Therapy is a beautiful thing. Mental tune-ups are a must.
This is a whole lot of nothing to explain why I want to clickety-clack on this here keyboard, bang out some words and hope there are some willing eyes to read them. Even now, I changed “eager” to “willing” so as not to sound too presumptuous. I can’t win! But I’ll try to break even.
Beautifully written, Amy! You truly have a gift and are brave to talk about your experiences. Thanks for sharing your story.