The Desperate Need to Write

I need to write, I love to write. It is a simple but profound statement of my life. Always, since I was a boy, I have been captivated by that need to express myself. Perhaps because I had no other place to put all the things I was feeling and going through, or it could have been my intense love of books. A combination of both and more, a part of my desire to soar. To fly, to rise above the usually painful present circumstances into a place of comfort and purpose where plans work out and dreams come true and villains really do lose. I found those places as a youngster and had a profound desire to create them. I found more inside of me than I could contain and pen to paper was the only place to go with it. The fact that from the time I could talk until now I have been a talker and story teller is no wonder considering my life of dissociative behaviors and myriad of characters that reside within me. "Worlds, call me worlds." For it is worlds that reside deep within me. If only I could hone my creative skills enough to get them out into the world of the reader. Perhaps with the shift from paper and notebooks to this used laptop that I received as a gift earlier this year I can do more. Writing the worlds of my life and the things inside of me has been a largely private thing for me most of the days of my life besides the sharing of some stories and notebooks along the way with those close to me. Notebooks, paper and pens, books and all of their smells and textures so sensual and the start of it all for me. It was my painful and confusing childhood in the 1970s that put me in such a fantasy, escapist frame of mind. Books, comic books, TV and trading cards along with hot wheels and matchbox cars were my mainstay, my worlds. I escaped all of the horrors and perversions of home and the abuse and rejections of my piers and elders in school and church. I was alone in the matrix, even those close to me, without exception hurt me in some way, with the exception of papa. My mother's father. He is many worlds himself. Worlds for another day, or many actually. Ti’s another fellow who has captured my mind for this moment. That fellow is Richard Thomas. His role as John Boy Walton it the 70s TV show saved my life. It was from there that I was given the idea to write and that I did. I continued to follow John through his life and career and I have always admired him and enjoyed the different things he was in, but he will always be John boy to me. In my mind I sometimes found ways for me to be there at their place, free from my weird, confusing existence. So from then all through life I have kept diaries or journals and written a lot of poetry and many stories or scenes. A couple of attempts at plays and skits but only the poetry on my blog has ever been seen public ally. I wrote because I had to. In the early days I wrote of all the confusing and hurtful things I was contending with in comparison to the stories I was reading in all the books and the bible I got from school and the bookmobile. I must have written the wrong things in the very early diaries, when I was 9 and 10 I started and I learned early to hide them well for pages disappeared from them at first. So I knew someone mean had been reading them and had ripped "incriminating" things from my little books. As well as things other than that, things I wish I still had now for I do have those books still, minus the pages torn out and the pieces of my broken heart that were grind-ed in the dust. So I learned to be generic and stuff all the UN-readable things inside during those years until I learned enough to be able to hide things so that they could not be found and my most private places invaded. I have many notebooks of various sorts and sizes from forty plus years of writing and I even found a place that sold the same notebooks that John boy used on the show. Red Big Chief note books that opened from the top. They are put away, I have 2 of them but I have used many Mead top ringed notebooks over the years. The boyhood ones were diary type and of course I got ridiculed for that. Being a little girl, but then I was a good little cock-sucker too, so he said. I just took it and hung my head in shame and went on with my lonely life, but I never let the ridicule stop me from writing or loving and playing music. He could not kill who I really was deep inside, only cripple it real good. Perhaps it was the abuse, sexual, physical, mental, emotional, up close and personal and invasive as it was that pushed me to create the worlds that I did and do so that I would have somewhere safe to live. So now here I am desperately needing to write and writing a lot, feeling a lot, being invaded by a lot as I go through this crazy marriage failure/self discovery time in life and as I prepare myself to launch out on my own with my trust destroyed. The past present and future have been blended into one huge scifi nightmare where my deceased son and I run from perverted abusive people and monsters intent on wiping us and our thoughts and memories out of existence forever. Trust for us is zero, anyone could be an agent of the enemy or an alien. Eyes are everywhere and you cant deny that, looking at all of us, following, plotting destruction. Trying to cave my head in, just like when I was little. Only I have to carry both of us around inside of me and it is heavy sometimes. He was a really great little boy and for a long time I could not even think of him without needing a trip to the mental hospital but finally about 6 years ago the flood gates finally broke and he came back to me. Just one crazy day after weeping and weeping at the awful realization of what all I had really lost all those years ago. I was sitting in my chair out in the back by the UN-bee tree by the fields he came to me. My eyes were closed but suddenly as if opened I saw his little 5 year old self, smiling, coming towards me. I knelt on one knee and he straddled the other and hugged me. "It's gonna be OK daddy," he said as he put his hands on my face and wiped the tears from under my eyes with his thumbs. "I'm OK, and I'm still with you, just hang on to me, please. Until were together again." He started to say something else but as if someone called him he hopped off of my knee and said, "gotta go, I love you." and he ran off and that was it. It was beautiful but it drove me to my knees in sobs. However I can now think about him and look at pictures and stuff, I cry, I write but I stay sane and together. Even after all these years I still love and miss my little buddy so much. He was my first officer, my pit crew boss. My helper when there were jobs to be done and someone killed all of that. God in heaven I pray no one reading what i write ever has to experience that but alas I know they do poor souls. I know of losing your precious child that you never get over it. You only go through it one day at a time and it never stops hurting it only becomes bearable after years and years. Writing has helped me cope with all the awful bullshit in life and I'm sure some days I'll have some more happy things to write about. There is so much inside of me that needs to come out. Sometimes I write a lot, other times not nearly as much. Now I am feeling and thinking and remembering a lot of things and I have no where to go but my diary’s. So when the demons are on the attack its all I can do to stay sane and keep writing.