Creative Avoidance

Refusing to write is equivalent to willfully cutting off my own oxygen supply. Refusing to write is different than writer’s block, and I have been in the blended in-between of both for some time. Except at this point, if I go a single step further without writing, I will be violating one of my newly established cardinal laws. As soon as I know better, I do better. If I refuse to write after what I know now, I would have to live in the toxic waste of knowing that I value my ego more than my calling to write. 

It’s been almost a year since being in my tech career, and I’m pretty sure it has a DNR order. I was pulled into the inner trenches of self-discovery, which inevitably involved the spin cycle of denial, bargaining, grief, breakthroughs, unlearning, relearning, ownership, reconciliation, and so on. Bringing many waves of psychic openings that have fundamentally changed who I am, while still wondering who exactly that is now. 

As I forage a new identity and role for myself in this life, the constant that has remained true is the call to write. Because at this point, if I don’t, I think I might die. Not because I will do something drastic or self-harming, but because writing is my life force. 

I built an impenetrable wall of avoidance around why I couldn’t write. That somehow in order to write, you need to have a sense of certainty, perspective, and some semblance of yourself that can stand by your work. It is your name on your words after all. What I failed to see is how the process of writing could be the one thing to stand by me as I recover myself. To write my way forward during a time where my identity, formally defined by my career, was being reshaped by different matter altogether. 

One of my biggest fears in this journey entirely revolved around how I am perceived. Because who I am, and how I see the world has changed so drastically. SURELY, if I now see the world differently, then the world must see me differently, right? 

And to be honest, an intuitive/mystic/ whateverthefuck doesn’t fit very agreeably in the environment from which I come.

I deeply fear others will think I’m crazy, that I’m a part of some cult, involved with dark matter, or fuck, that maybe this is some sort of act for attention. This is a deep wound that is threaded back into self-acceptance that requires consistent reparenting, nervous system-regulation, and mental reprograming. Reparenting myself into feeling safe enough to simply live life free from my desire for control, burden of guilt, obligation, and the “shoulds.” To stop stuffing myself all the time just to make someone else feel more comfortable. God damn girl, just have fun! I’m trying.

I am emerging from the days where my monogram necklace was the only thing reminding me of who I am. And as it turns out, after all this, somehow, I’m still Angie. If there’s still Angie, there is still writing. That’s all I know, and as soon as I know, that’s what I must do. I’ll see you back here soon.