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A had a realization hit me right in the mouth recently.

Writer’s block – we approach the wall when we know writing will help but can’t seem to narrow down what to share. I can’t imagine what fiction writers go through with their writer’s block…

For me, I debate on how much I want to share, worry about who might read this, and think way too far into others’ interpretation. Did they get my point? Am I complaining? Fortunately for me, none of that is my responsibility. When I’m standing at the wall, I will fidget about and look for anything else to do but write. Writer’s block or avoidance?

My avoidant tendencies sit at the top of my list of things I wish I could simply outgrow. Perhaps that’s what I assumed would happen the second I turned 30. Hasn’t happened yet and it certainly feels stronger than ever. Being avoidant or wishing to become invisible is discrete enough to remain undetectable by others – at least I hope it is – but loud and bright enough for me to have trouble concentrating on anything else.

Like when you’re driving and have to turn down the music so you can see better. In my case, I want to quiet the not so peaceful protest happening in my chest so I can stay conscious at the very least.

My professional work is challenging in a lot of ways and I feel uncomfortable in most aspects of what I do, but not how you’d assume. The most interesting part is the stress I feel before going into the prison, juvenile hall, or dealing with a crisis at work, isn’t necessarily due to the nature of the situation or how bad it is. When shit hits the fan, I’m in it and dealing with it. The chaos is just busy enough to push away my own discomfort and focus on fixing the problem; I work well under pressure – most of the time – and often have no choice but to just…deal.

When things get quiet, you can expect to hear my sounds of deep sighs every couple minutes or so – checking to make sure I remember how to breathe – and my bloody, picked at cuticles. If I’m given enough time to anticipate anything, I will lose any sense of comfort and all my hyper-awareness is activated completely. I’m looking for ways to avoid what could happen before it does. I worry about the visceral reaction; a fear of my body letting me down in a time of need especially in a locked down facility or since my health is shit. I mostly make it through with the help of a few tricks that help me stay vertical and present.

Pushing through that chaos has since shown me the power that comes from being uncomfortable. While yes, the anxiety I feel can be so extraordinary that it sometimes feels like I have the ability to climb a 20ft wall and escape, it also follows with a combined relief and feeling of great accomplishment that I fucking did that – whatever that is at the time. The majority of the things I push through aren’t nearly as excruciating as I think they’ll be. I’m trying to train my brain into thinking that being uncomfortable definitely means I should see it through because the reward is far more extraordinary than the fear.

A lot of us wear disguises for self-preservation. These disguises can be carried around for years but to those closest to me, especially my husband, can see right through them. Chalk it up to my introversion or call it my personality, but thinking that this ability to change the outside from reflecting what I feel in the inside is nothing but a false representation of who I deserve to be in the moment.

I think I’m a strong person and want to be viewed as such but strength doesn’t always mean gripping onto the stubbornness or staying too rigid. I think strength can also look like letting go, sometimes completely, and allowing for other interpretations that don’t include the convoluted narrative I tell myself to preserve what little emotional capacity I have left.

One day this will make sense to me – or it won’t. All of this can be seen as a way of sending a message to ourselves. The messages aren’t always right and won’t always be kind but they will likely help us explore where we’ve been and what still needs healing. And instead of slamming the door on them, I’m learning to meet those messages with a sense of curiosity instead of fear or shame.

On the bright side, with all the negativity I’m so comfortable sitting in, I somehow make most efforts to preserve parts of me. This must mean I still care about what I’ve gone through and what happens to me, right?

E

PS – Not me realizing all over again why I started this blog.