I have been quiet lately.
This has been mostly due to the fact that I am fighting off a small bout of depression. It’s as if there is a blueness around me that I can breathe in. It wants to wrap itself around me like a blanket but I am pushing it away.
I do not want to become entangled in its embrace.
That’s not to say that I’m not writing. I am. I tinker away at the memoir, One Step at a Time. Or rather, one word at a time.
I’m coming to think of these words, the ink upon the page, like a kind of blood. Though black and still, the words shine for me, as if they were alive, as if they were breathing, living things.
I suppose that in a way they are. They’ve become a maze of words and emotions that I have had to fight my way through.
The curves on the J’s become barbs and the edges on the T’s are sharp and prick my fingers. The O’s are round and soft but I have to be careful; I could become lost in them.
Memories that I had locked away to never be seen again are stretching and growing alive again after a long, dreamless sleep. They breathe in and take breath from me, stealing air that I have so long denied them.
Even though the words are made of ink, there is blood within them; there are tears. Frequently, as I type and tinker away at the memoir, I feel hot tears on my face.
I wipe them away thinking: I must not show emotion. I must distance myself. I must not show emotion. I must I must I must…
But how can I not show emotion? How can I detach myself from my memories, from the things that have happened to me? Such is my internal debate. I feel as if I am arguing with a third part of me, a naysayer that fills me with doubt.
I do not have energy for much else. I am exhausted, tired. I feel lethargic. The only thing that helps is the writing of the words, MY words.
It lets the blueness out.
I know that these words have to be written, that the process has been and will continue to be therapeutic. I know that on the other side of the Blue are other colours: Red and Orange. Green and maybe, hopefully, a wonderfully soft Violet.
But to get to these colours, I have to keep writing. I have to give my words life, let them bleed on to the page.
Then the blueness will fly away.
You have an amazing way with words, Jamieson. And the writing of them will free you.
Let them bleed, my friend. It’s the only way you can put your heart and your soul into this book. Let it bleed. Once the words are out, you will feel an incredible rush because it will be at that point where you will be cleansed. Ever pictured standing at the bottom of a waterfall and having the fresh clean water fall down on top of you and afterwards, you climb out and it’s such an incredible feeling? This book, while it may take lots of bloodshed…after it’s done, you will look at that book and all sorts of things will be going through your mind, but you’ll look at that book and say, “That’s my blood I have shed in between those pages. Now, I can close the book and be free of the bloodshed.” That, my friend, is what we writers who write memoirs understand to be the epitome of happiness.
Hi. Jody sent me a link to your blog, and I have been sitting here fascinated with what you are saying. You have a way of saying things, and this one touched me. I also use words to help get rid of the “blueness” – but with me it’s black – and the tears that roll down your cheeks when writing ARE the blueness leaving. They are what poisons your violet and makes it blue. Don’t try to detach yourself from your writing, because it would be like walking away from who you are… I have heard so many stories about you, your patience, your intelligence and your drive. Your book will heal your blue, will make you stronger and will be a ray of light for you. Thank you for your words.