Tag Archives: on writing

Empty Girls Walking

I could never write again.

I could go the rest of my life without putting pen to paper. No one can force me to pour myself over essays or arrange stanzas for another sad poem or pick apart the meanings of words that I have yet to unpack.

I don’t feel like a writer. I haven’t sat down to work for ages – I write blog posts, sure, and some poems here and there. Words still tumble around my brain until they ache, until I have to do something or I’ll explode.

But there’s an essay that won’t let me go. I haven’t written it and I don’t want to do so. I don’t want to write down the thoughts – I want to pour them down the drain, light the sink on fire, and run away.

I don’t want to face this memory.

And it’s holding me hostage in the worst way. It has me by the brain and every time I get close to something else, it throbs in my skull. The words have come to me, angry and insistent, time and time again. It’s too much.

I wish there was a tidy ending.. a promise I could give that I’ll write everything down, that I’ll explain myself, that I’ll empty the vault and release the pressure building up behind my eyes.

I don’t know, man. I’m scared of everything I have to say. I’m afraid of how true it is, it was, it continues to be.

All I can do is look down at my hands and think, maybe someday.

maybe soon.

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Happy Little Life

I know, I know, this title is contradictory to last week’s title, but what can I say? I contain multitudes. Today’s post will be short and sweet. Thank you for respecting my wishes, for hearing me without demanding answers. Thank you for the love you have poured toward me, the undue kindness and restraint you have shown, the quiet support which I have seen even in the most unexpected places. I am so grateful.

I wrote about the Big Three because it’s important. I tell sad stories because they’re important. I run this blog because it’s important, if only to me. But you! You have come and sat alongside me, swallowing my words, digesting the tales and heartache and discovery just as fast as I can write them out. You are so good to me. Thank you.

Today I am off on an adventure, but before I go, I want to remind you that I am curating a beautiful, happy little life – and I could not do it without you.

Have a beautiful Sunday.

with love,
K

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On Writing (this blog)

Let’s be honest with each other.

I have a second blog — or rather, this is my second blog, the one I deemed safe for my family and more distant friends. It’s Facebook friendly. I write about assault but provide no details, I explain my brighter thought patterns, I am honest but vague. But if you’ve spent any time with me, you know that I have an annoying habit of saying everything. I’m not so much an open book as I am a magic mirror, rehashing and justifying and pleading as I try to make sense of these stories.

But I wanted to have a space to reach out, if only slightly. To speak in a way that could be comfortably share with almost-strangers and people who have known me since I was small.

My other blog has way more swears and graphic details, more terribly honest stories and accounts of abuse and nights spent crying and days spent thoroughly rutted in depression. But I knew I didn’t want my family to be exposed to that, so instead I revived this one. ‘Krista Takes the World.’ And I think I will, but that’s not the point here. The point is, I created a space because my parents were sad that I wouldn’t share my writing with them and I love my parents. And I’m a sucker for praise because, let’s face it, I require attention to live.

But is it honest to write like this, so selectively, avoiding hot button topics and general themes so that my words are digestible for the public? Is it honest to write and delete posts every week just because I know I don’t want my family’s worried whispers to trail after me? Is it honest or is it cowardly to hide the stories that would put people on edge?

I’m still sorting that out. Especially since my blog became a weird component in me leaving my job — I’ve become painfully aware that, despite my intentions, my writing is up for grabs the moment I publish it. At the same time, I am not presenting my full story if I leave out my mental health issues, my illness, and my disability.

For the most part, you as a reader are here for one of two reasons: you either enjoy me as a person and want to see what my brain’s doing or you enjoy my writing and are pleasantly surprised that I’m also a person. In other words, most of you are here because you know me. If knowing more about me and the struggles I face somehow devalue me in your eyes, I’m not entirely sure I want to know you.

Anyway.

I’m mapping out what I want this space, my space, to become. I’ll continue writing the nitty-gritty elsewhere, but I’m striving to be more honest here too. If I write something that makes you nervous, or worried, or scared, please remember – I am a person first. Talking to me rather than about me shows that you’ve remember I’m a person, too. I share these stories both to remind everyone that we’re not alone in our struggles and to work through everything around me.

So yes, this PTSD-riddled major-depressive-disordered hard-of-hearing ball of anxiety will keep writing and sometimes (oftentimes) the stories will not be pretty. And that’s okay. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to write them, but I’ll try not to mind if you don’t read them. We’ll just keep existing parallel to each other, touching base however makes us both comfortable.

 

Oh, and one last note — even at my darkest, even with my most difficult struggles, I feel so thankful for my life as it is today. My god, this is legions beyond what I ever imagined I would have when I was growing up. This is good, my friends. This is more than I dreamed and I’m still reaching upward. We’re going to be okay.

 

 

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