The act of writing causes me turmoil. When I sit down to write it takes me three hours to part the emotional overgrowth of years to find my state of grace. It took many years for the emotional overgrowth to occur and I work very hard to clear it. I’m Catholic and I contemplate the meaning of the word grace every day. There is a state of grace that I didn’t learn about in Catholic school.
I prepared to write this by researching the word grace. I thought it necessary to learn about all the different kinds of grace that exist in the realm of faith and belief and humanity. I couldn’t find a definition of grace that satisfied me because the grace that I experience is different. It involves my ability to take the creative flow within me and use it to put words and ideas down on a page.
This is a grace that I feared I had lost. Sometimes I still think I have lost it. I remember that in high school I wrote every single day. Every thought and word and deed in my life at that time ended up on paper, white paper ruled in blue with three holes punched on the left side so that I could place it in a notebook. I had more notebooks full of my writing than I had makeup, clothes, shoes, or jewelry.
At the moment, I am frustrated by trying to type on my Macbook Pro while wearing a large, heavy watch on my left wrist. This is a metaphor for my struggle to write for the last few months. Ideas, thoughts, and words don’t flow as easily as they used to. That’s why I have moments of fear that I have lost my ability to write. I fear that I abandoned the daily act of writing for so long that my source of grace took flight and went on a search for someone who better deserves it than me. My God, but that idea scares me.
I have considered myself a writer since I was a child. When I was in the third grade it all made sense to me. I was eight years old when I discovered two miraculous things. The first was that I could think of ideas that energized me. The second was that when I combined my ideas with the letters of the alphabet I could make the words that are breath and life to me.
I wrote my first story in the third grade. I told my parents my homework was to write a story about pain, and so I wrote a story about a woman who was badly beaten by her husband. When I finished writing it, I gave it to my parents to read. They didn’t like my story at all. My father told me that I should write nice stories, not painful ones. I said nothing in reply, but I had a secret. I had lied to my parents. The teacher did not give me any homework. I made up a fake assignment so that I would have a legitimate excuse to shock the hell out of my parents. I succeeded. The story about the husband beating his wife was severe. I described the physical beating using vivid words. I described the pain that the wife experienced as well as the rage that the husband felt. I described his fists meeting the skin of her face and body. I remember my words to this day. The story was much too traumatic for my parents. They did not like what I had written about or the way I had written it. My father told me not to write things like that anymore. I didn’t listen to him. I was proud of my story, and I was pleased with their disturbed reaction. My words had evoked a powerful response from my parents. It scared them and I was glad. As my parents walked out of my bedroom, I heard my mother say “She’s a very good writer.” It was the first time I knew that writing gives me power and grace.
I wrote more and more as the years passed, but I didn’t share my writing with my parents again for a very long time. Much later in 2008, I maintained a blog and I wrote about my experience with bulimia from the age of 12 through 18. I wrote that I saved my own life by asking to see a therapist and by writing down my feelings every day. My parents responded to my blog entry with hurt and anger. It was a part of their life that they did not want to remember. My writing made them relive the pain of seeing their daughter suffer. Once again my writing came to blows with their emotions. I took down that blog post and I felt horrible that I had hurt my parents. I don’t think I’ve forgiven myself yet. I am not eight years old anymore. I have no need to shock and hurt people with my words, but I do need to explore my memories and feelings through my writing. I stopped writing personal essays and didn’t take it up again until last year. I don’t write to cause others pain. I write to heal my own. This is my state of grace.