To Start

9/28/2024

To start; I’ll talk about how I can’t start.

It’s always something.

I just worked 10 ½ hours for the second day in a row and I probably will again tomorrow. I accidentally deleted all of my previous draft and cried my eyes out. Most of my energy is gone at the end of the day no matter how many ideas I have, lines ready to use, entire concepts planned out, I come home and just want to shut off my brain.

But tonight I’m staying up past midnight trying to get this out there because I feel I am worth it.

Since I was a kid I’ve been a writer. I remember my mom getting me a “make your own picture book” in 3rd grade. At the top was a spot to draw and the bottom 6 lines to write. I filled the pages top to bottom in words, sealed up my envelope, shipped it out, and waited for my physical copy. I imagined a red leather bound book full of my tales of a zombie apocalypse.

After a few weeks of dreaming and checking the mailbox earnestly everyday before and after school, I got a letter back saying they couldn’t fulfill my request because I didn’t include pictures. They didn’t even return my story, just new blank pages. I later tried to recreate it multiple times, but it never felt right. I was discouraged and too young to teach myself to pick back up the pieces of my disappointment.

This feeling continued through high school. I was afraid of the rejection that would come from opening myself up creatively for a multitude of other reasons, but I remember another instance in particular being big “core memory” for that line of thinking;

In Sophomore year we were told to come up with a “creation myth” for the world. My teacher was a member of the LGBT community and I, a young queer discovering their identity, wanted to reach out while being creative. I decided I would open up to him with a story about two boys, a fox and raccoon, playing then combining into a new, previously unknown animal, an otter. While I know this didn’t follow the prompt exactly, I thought he would understand where I was coming from and recognize the meanings behind it.

Instead, I got the paper back covered in red pen telling me this wasn't the project and judging everything but the content of the story. He never reached out to me and never really seemed to look my way in general.

The same happened in art class… of all places. I was told how to do everything and exactly how it should turn out. Draw the negative space of a chair- only THIS chair. Do a self portrait- only in THIS style with THESE utensils in THESE colors. Learn about THIS artist. Be creative, but not how you want to be.

I had a few school activities that did try to foster my creativity more- recycled ornament contests, environmental art contests (products of the 2000s), acting, creative writing, photography- but by then I learned to never take risks. I don’t know that those teachers would have allowed it anyways.

My biggest saving grace was my 4 years of journalism where I was an editor and did layout for the newspaper. That teacher was the only one to foster my creativity or celebrate or even acknowledge my queer identity in any genuine way. We did articles on many topics considered progressive for our small Midwest town.

Even though I was now learning to take risks, I was not being vulnerable. Not at the fault of my saint of a teacher, LGBT topics were written from an “ally” perspective out of my safety, political stances were “unbiased” and any pop culture reference or personal article was trying to filter out the “cringe” [AKA Passion].

Still, if it wasn't for that class I might not ever become the person I wanted. I often came into school late, went to journalism, and then walked out the front door to skip school after. It was the only thing keeping me there. It was the only thing helping me feel sane in my life at all.

Around this time I was writing stories for WattPad, Karma and Flamboyant.

Karma was about a young woman going camping and meeting a young, dumb, hot, boy. Flamboyant was about a young boy who thought people called him flamboyant because of his resilience- His flame wouldn't get put out by water, but float in the sea of intolerance.

I never uploaded, let alone finished them. I was afraid I would reveal too much about myself and was comparing others ideas to mine instead of just expressing mine.

Once I got into my adult life (a little unstably, being kicked out and dropping out at 17), adult life happened and my self worth/fear of vulnerabilities/trying to SURVIVE kept me from pushing myself creatively for the better part of my life so far. I would post on my personal FB, but even most of my family would just heart react and move along, never to bring up my art, feelings or musings ever again. They only felt the need to comment when I shared an unoriginal post they didn’t like.

My photography- turned collage- turned microscopy IG page would get likes, but no real engagement. I would go through spurts of toxicity with it thinking “this time I've got it. The right ideas, I’m following the right people, I’m posting the right amount, etc. etc. etc.” but each time falling into the trap and only getting “buy followers/likes here!” comments.

Beyond the lack of creative culture I grew up in- and how it manifests- was my creative mom who was in some other type of creative block and my abusive dad who put me down for even singing as a kid. We lost our house and never really had the money nor space for me to do my art. Privacy is important for me to create I’ve learned, and when you spend middle school living in a pole barn without bedroom doors and with bathroom curtains, you don’t do much of anything vulnerable. Emotionally, creatively, physically, financially. The tools and space I needed to make my art were luxuries I couldn’t afford.

When I DID get something that would contribute to my creative development (not until High school), it was almost always proposed as a way to make money. Photojournalism was not the focus of my Dad getting me my first camera- products in light boxes was. Creativity not the goal of getting me my laptop, helping him update business websites was. If a hobby can’t be monetized, it isn't productive to capitalism, and therefore isn't worth having. (and if you can monetize it or have it boost you socially, any funds that go to that hobby is now deemed worth it- even at the expense of your family. But that's another topic, for another day.)

Yes- if you can find a way to make money doing what you love, great. I, however was looking for creative expression, exploration, and growth.

This all culminated into an overall creative depression and personal repression.

After so long, you start to decline creatively. As Robin Divine puts it over on their Substack, “Unhealed childhood wounds, poverty trauma and untreated c-ptsd had started to impact my ability to function. My entire life had been lived in survival mode. I’d never had the resources, time or support I needed to recover….. But back to my ideas. Every single one of them had potential. However, the problem with poverty is that I don’t have the luxury of time. My life of chronic urgency hasn’t allowed me space to nurture my creativity.”

Nowadays, I am privileged enough to have a halfway decent paying job in a field I would probably be involved with either way, although capitalism sucks a majority of the passion out of it and I come home with my brain turned soup. Luckily though, it has provided me a sort of stability and resource availability while wading through the waters of this society.

The other thing helping me now is limiting my online life- another topic for another time- and mainly using Substack Notes as an alternative when I DO feel the need to scroll (waiting in line for coffee or waiting for a cab kinda thing), and surfing personal sites like these on Neocities when I do want to spend time online. These are the first outlets for me that feel somehow right. The communities seems nice enough, yet I still fear returning and seeing the no substance red ink smeared across the page like blood from opening up my heart to write this in the first place.

I don’t want to downplay the good aspects of my childhood or life- however I will save those times to be explored more later, as I will not downplay the impact this all had on me.

I will save those times for later because there has ALWAYS been a reason I couldn't start. Now I’m only just starting. I will explore myself creatively as an act of love for myself and as an act of resistance to this system.

This isn't “be sad I never fulfilled my potential,” this is identifying why I feel the way I do so I can move past it. Maybe someone else feels the same and I can help them to start as well.