My Song

I’ve been struggling as a writer lately. I think it’s partly because I’ve been struggling as a human being for awhile now, and I let the struggle get the better of me. But there’s more. I figured it out tonight while I was driving back from the apartment I used to share with the woman I was supposed to be with. My sister’s van full of my things. Things I left behind. Because I never meant to leave at all. But I did. I can’t change what I did. Struggling with forgiveness as well. Always learning to forgive myself.

I wrote her a letter. We were still living together. I was starting to crack and she was spreading her wings. I meant to tell her I needed help. Instead, I ended up saying something, telling her something that made her question the notion of us. Something that changed the way she felt about me. I only wanted to tell her I loved her and that I needed help. I was losing my mind. At the same time that I was losing her. Losing my entire life. It was too much for me to bear. I became self-obsessed. I can admit that. No need to pretend.

It’s been stuck in my head – the something I said – that I still don’t understand how I could communicate something that wasn’t in my heart. And I kept doing it. Keep doing it. Writing things that don’t convey what it is I feel, what it is I know, what it is I most devoutly believe to be true. That’s where I’ve been struggling. Doubting myself. I’ve been plugging away. Pushing myself through it. Hoping for clarity.

I’m looking for my voice again. I spent the last week reading through a copy of some work I did during grad school, the last time I wrote on a regular basis. I barely recognized some of it, didn’t remember writing the words, didn’t remember the story, but it was good. I was working hard then. I’d spent years narrowing my focus, studying my craft, pushing myself to be better. Always better. Reading through my old work, I felt a little like a singer whose vocal cords have been damaged, listening to her records, the songs she really just fucking killed, and wondering if she’d ever be able to do it again. If I’ll ever be able to do it again.

I’m trying. Trying to get my voice back in shape. Relearning the nuances. Relearning the joy of my art. Finding the confidence to bear my soul again. I know I can do it. But I still don’t believe I can. I hear it in my own voice. Wavering, wobbling. The fear resonates, but I am starting to hit the right notes and every once in awhile I kill the big ones and I hear something else, something new, something stronger and richer than I’ve ever heard before. So I just have to keep going. I can’t change the past. I can’t un-cause the pain I caused. I can only change myself. I can only vow to be better. Always better.

I have to push through the fear, past the failure, and toward the place where I can step back on that stage and belt out the song that’s in my soul.