I find it difficult to write.
In this I am joined by countless others, but I find it frustrating, irritating and it maddens me that it's such a slow process to solidify my thoughts when words have kept me sane at some of my lowest points. I hate that even looking at a blank page immediately gets that old sinking feeling going - and I absolutely love words. All of them, from funny sounding English ones like pugnacious to Tonga words like "mujungwishi". Words have been the background to my life, from the ones that shaped me, to the ones that allowed me an escape, every time the world became hard to live with. I travelled, opened my mind, learnt about the mundane, the fantastic, the extraordinary from the words I read. I could be anyone, become anything, do anything and all before dinner time in the books I read, and yet for all those words floating in me, it's a battle making my own. I envy those people that can make songs from words. Alright, I envy a lot of talents that others have, but this is the only one that I know I have no natural talent for and yet is the one I would like most.
But this isn't supposed to be a self-pitying moan, although I did begin this way. It's supposed to be about letting the other voice(es) speak.I'll say this - to give a voice to my dark half is what this blog is supposed to be for, and yes, I do think of George Stark* when I say this. Would I like a smidgeon of the talent Mr. King has? Yup, but even more I would like to sing my songs the way Pat Conroy does. I remember reading "The Prince of Tides" at 13 (completely inappropriate of course) and raving to my older sister about the book I thought it was so touching. I re-read it in my 20s and was horrified to realise that touching feeling was actually self-recognition in the Wingo children. This was around the time I began to internally voice I had a problem. That I was damaged, broken somehow, and didn't know where, I only knew I was. And yes, others are damaged, others manage to rise, but for me, the realisation that there is this thundercloud, this deep purple, this dark half in me, has taken me almost 10 years to realise. How's that for self awareness?
And every time the clouds close over me, it is a song trying to break free. Some of this music is awful, hateful, and some the sad low notes of loneliness, but each piece sung is one more that I have let free, one more no longer making it's music inside. And if I can capture it, trap it in words physical, then it may still have the power to hurt, but maybe, just maybe, it will be one less bind to that spiralling feeling of helplessness when the storms break.
Has much changed since I started to come to all these self absorbed realisations? And they are, terribly, lamentably self absorbed, but then depression is selfish.....and often self absorbed! So the answer is not really. I live, laugh, wonder at my children, delight in the marvels of science, and make my way, breathing in and out. And through it all the current of dark, a twisting of hate - the purple and I have our show-downs, our ignores, our little victories in this never-ending relationship.
It's a work in progress, but I like to think that it's one that I am slowly mastering, every time I let the words free.
* "The Dark Half" - Stephen King (NEL) 1989
