Writing through Hardships
I am in a writing funk. I cannot write. Yet, I feel compelled to write. My mind holds a myriad of ideas, half-formed stories, and partial poems. Some days I'm able to type something on my laptop, save it to my documents folder and refer to it when I’m submitting to journals and magazines. Other times, I’m staring at my social media, viewing other writers and creators post content to their sites. I marvel at their creativity and hope to emulate them, only to take one of my “three-hour naps” until the feeling goes away.
I dreamt of a career as a full-time writer ever since I was a young girl. My mother was my biggest supporter. Despite our poverty status, my mother managed to buy me books, pencils, and paper. She would bring my brother and me to the library. I love libraries and had one in my bedroom. Even as an adult, I have shelves full of books. Reading has always been an escape for me.
I have to be honest — I have a lot of issues. Nearly five years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a shock not only to my body but to my mind and spirit as well. Before the diagnosis, I had considered myself a pretty healthy person. Besides the common cold and a couple of bouts of bronchitis, I hadn’t been hospitalized since the birth of my son. I worked as a teacher and tried to be in my classroom more than out of it. The substitute teachers at my old high school would jokingly complain that they couldn’t make any money off me. I was always at school.
My other issue is depression. A few years before my cancer journey, I had a mini nervous breakdown. For many reasons, life at that particular time caused an implosion within me. My body, heart, and mind shut down. This happened because I was juggling motherhood, dealing with challenges within my marriage and at my job and beginning an MFA program at my dream school. In addition, personal relationships with friends and colleagues were strained to say the least.
Despite my inner turmoil, I was able to function as an English teacher at an urban high school in Boston. No one knew that I was suffering. But my issues did manifest themselves in other ways — I didn’t want to be social with my friends, I began to sleep more when I was at home and I turned to food to alleviate stress. At work, dealing with a mix of students, I tried to put on a brave face as the caring, concerned teacher. Some days it worked better than others. I would be so involved with the drama at my school that I often forgot my own drama. But once the school day was over and I headed home, the weight of my woes would grow heavier and heavier.
I contemplated suicide on more than one occasion. If it weren’t for my energetic, young son, I probably would have succeeded. I made at least one attempt and my sisters came to my house and knocked some sense into me. I cried and cried trying to rid myself of the anger and frustration I felt. My school was suffering academically, my marriage was a series of arguments, complaints and financial struggles. The first semester in my MFA program was more challenging than I had anticipated and I faced the real possibility of being dropped from the program.
Medication and therapy helped me control my depression. I’ve been on an antidepressant since 2010. The dosage has been increased over the years. Especially in 2015, when my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Depression, fear, and stress all took up space within my mind. If it weren’t for the medication, I don’t know how I would have gotten through my recovery process. In addition, the meds helped me as I became a caregiver to my mother.
What also helped was my return to poetry. In addition to writing stories when I was a kid, I wrote tons of poetry. I remember sitting in my high school English class as the teacher droned on writing poems in my notebook. I even had a few poems published in the student magazine. But I never saw poetry as the focal point of my writing. At the time, I was going to be a fiction writer.
But once I was diagnosed with cancer, I lost the ability (until recently) to write in long-form. I could barely write a paragraph. My mind wasn't able to concentrate on articles, essays or stories. I was doing a side hustle as a freelance writer and once I began treatment, my freelance career came to a screeching halt. ’To deal with the stress of my illness and then my mother’s, I returned to poetry. It was a genre that was more accessible for my anxiety-riddled mind. I could write a two-line couplet or a free verse poem. I wasn’t constrained by form or rules. Poetry became my new escape. I’ve spent the past five years writing poetry and have found a measure of success with it.
In June of 2017, my mother died. She had fought against cancer and was even in remission for a short period of time, but then cancer came back and she was hospitalized. The doctors were planning another surgery and hospice care when my mother passed away in her sleep. Devastated didn’t even begin to define how I felt. I went numb. The shock did not wear off for almost a year. Everything felt surreal as if a dream. My beautiful, strong mother who had gone through so much in her life was gone.
Suffice it to say, my final issue is grief. Since my mother’s passing, I’ve struggled with anguish, guilt, and paranoia. I miss my mother, I fear death. I question why God didn’t intervene. I’m mad at the hospital for not doing more. I question everything. I wonder what’s the point. We’re all going to die someday. Why bother doing anything while alive? Then, I feel guilty for not doing anything with my life. I want to be remembered. My mother left this world with regrets. She had wanted to do more with her life. Circumstances had prevented her from fulfilling her dreams. I have to fulfill mine.
I’m not a full-time writer. I did get my MFA from Emerson. The desire to write nonfiction (and fiction) has returned. I know there’s a book in me — maybe more. That is the goal — to be a novelist. I continue to teach, now at a middle school. It hasn’t been great, but I know I have grown as an educator. My son is now a young man on the verge of graduating from high school. He’ll need my support to pursue his dreams. I’m still married but it is more out of necessity than love. I know if I get my life together, then I won’t have to depend on a man. I need to do the hard work to reach my goal and increase my discipline.
We are defined by our hardships. As a writer, my hardships are a part of my history. They’re ingrained in my persona. When I write my stories, I’m transported back to those moments in my memories. I use those moments to draft essays that bring readers into my life. I have a long road ahead of me. There will be more stops and starts. But I think I can right the funk and forge on. I can’t ignore the writer within me. She has so much to say.
