I'm a Writer, Thank You for Noticing

About a year ago I was dating someone I thought I'd be with for the rest of my life. It was a very hard yet worthwhile relationship. I was sure we could make our partnership work, and that together we would create the kind of life that inspires heart wrenching Academy Award-winning films and articles in The New Yorker. Instead we crashed and burned in spectacular fashion. "Disappointed" or "devastated" does not even begin to describe the months that followed our parting.

Prior to my meeting him, for years and years, my focus was only to survive and to figure out how to provide for my little family. Dating just wasn't on the agenda, which is just as well. I would've been no good to any man of quality. I was working as a freelance videography when video cameras became affordable to the average consumer, which dried up the market for my expertise. I lost my house and my car and my young son and I moved in with my Pops. We slept on the floor, with most of my son's toys and my dishes and such in someone's garage for safe-keeping. You can imagine what these kind of things might do to a sensitive girl's self-esteem, especially one who is supposed to be head of household.

Eventually I got a part-time job that I managed to make full-time. I saved all my money and kept my mouth shut when my dear friends told me I was a good person. I found a cheap duplex to rent and by sheer luck my name was called in the Section 8 low-income housing lottery the month after I signed my month-to-month lease. This made rent cheap enough that I could go back to school and still eat and pay for electricity and childcare. In the beginning I studied marketing but switched to multimedia production when I took an elective credit in video, for old time's sake. I finished Portland Community College's intensive 60-hour Multimedia program on the Dean's List. This was not easy, with each class 3-4 credit hours and only 6-8 weeks long. Each semester I generally took 21-28 credit hours of classes, not including hours of required lab time, while working full-time and raising my son by myself. I wore my Academic Honors sash during graduation with a dreamy disbelief.

It's been years since this dark period in my life, but I still carry it with me. It has shaped my perspective who I am. My new credentials led me to a job that has allowed me to buy a house and a car and buy my son things that he wants, not just things he needs. I continue to hold fast the realization that things could go all to hell at any time. I am still shell shocked and wary. I lost my way, with eyes pried opened to face reality. I will never forget that life throws shit around indiscriminately.

This man that I thought I'd be with forever is an artist and a teacher. In the time we were together, I allowed myself to think of myself as creative for the first time in many, many years. It amazed me how words and pictures and ideas flowed from him. Good ones that made me admire him and want to see him succeed. With him I saw that I hadn't been writing things down anymore, my stories. I hadn't read for pleasure in a long time. Any inspiration I did have felt a waste of time. I was stuck in the time when all my energy was spent on doing something productive, for survival, instead. All the videos I'd done, or programing I'd produced, any writing I'd done, all of it really belonged to someone else. They weren't mine.

I made this man a promise that I would write again, become a writer like I've always wanted to be. I promised that I would write a book, and that's what I aim to do ... despite him, or because of him. It doesn't really matter as long as I am doing it. The things that have happened to me, that have led me to the place I am now, all the signs point to now being the time to do it. I've met some wonderful writers whose opinions I greatly respect, who genuinely want to see me succeed. This writing thing is not easy. It's from the heart, gut churning, soul baring and extremely personal stuff that scares me silly to share. But I need to. I need to tell my stories.

It's difficult to disengage the survival mode of my brain, to let go of the idea that I need to be on "high alert" in case something terrible happens again and I have to start all over, but I am learning.And, in the meantime, I am writing my little heart out and looking for job opportunities that won't make me feel like I'm lying when I say "I'm a writer." I could certainly fail, but I think I might not. But if I do I know I can crawl myself out of that hole again, with a big "fuck you" to those who say I can't.

Let's go steady!