Impression: Sunrise

Writing eases my existential dread.

Its Thursday morning, the weather is overcast but there is some sunlight breaking through. That should be a sign shouldn’t it? I wake up with my existential dread again, what if I can’t write? We forget at times that writing is the same as breathing, mine is currently heavy and shallow at the same time. As I drink my morning coffee and smoke a cigarette whilst thinking about how I need to change my ways, go for a run and create a meaningful life. This is where the inherent nihilism kicks in. Uncertainty and doubt swirl around my mind as I remind myself ‘here I am again'. Here I am, creating a new three year plan of sovereignty. Growing is scary, it shouldn’t be, it should be a natural evolving. Or should it, if it doesn’t cause that ‘oh fuck what am I doing?’ is it even worth acknowledging?

Impression: Sunrise, Claude Monet, 1872

All this is born out of my recent dissatisfaction with my own life. Not that is was necessarily worth complaining about, it was going quiet well. I was running my own business, which by itself was interesting. I was using my gifts to help others. It’s hard to calculate, how many, and it was providing a small wage. Certainly I wasn’t flaunting anything. But my writing had taken a back seat. First it was down to one hour a week of writing poetry, it took the edge off my guilt I guess. Guilt of not writing sounds strange but writing is has been my boat for 25 years. That little space for me, where I could pour my excess thoughts onto a page. Not necessarily to make sense of it all, but as medicine. It was my safe space on how to navigate the world.

It began with ‘morning pages’ from the Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. A book I don’t give enough credit to and perhaps need to revisit. It was my ‘creative and spiritual recovery,’ rediscovering my passions and overcoming my fears. LOL. You wouldn’t believe how many note books I have filled over those 25 years. I imagine if they were here on my kitchen floor there would be piles everywhere, with all their varying coloured covers. I only had one rule - no line. I never liked to be held in by the lines on a page. If I was trying to specifically be mentally organised around a subject I may for a short period fit myself between those tight perimeters. Never for long. I would break out again.

Writing is my safe space, the place where I get to say ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ over and over without any fear of judgement or criticism. What I learned in childhood was that it wasn’t safe to speak, let alone speak my mind. I forget that I’m a grown ass woman, who can say what she pleases. I realise at what’s now called ‘middle adulthood’ I am still overcoming my fears through writing, this time however, writing in public. Except I have bigger words now than I did when I began as a young single mother. I wasn’t always a single mother, I got married one time and somehow that pleased society.

But for me, it was living between the lines, and he invaded my safe space, my writing. I grew more and more protective of it. Nervous again, like I was as a child of saying the wrong thing. I would write on small pages, tiny letters, barely readable, tear it up into pieces and throw it in the rubbish bin. He would resurrect it, try and piece it back together, and use it against me. Writing during those times became like a dangerous addiction. I went to the church one day and spoke to God in code, of course I left the folded up pages in my handbag and they were found when I left it at home when I went to work. I needed to write, and journals became just a blank page that I would burn. Which, over 10 years later, for the most part, I still use for stream of consciousness today. I use other varying size journals for philosophy, notes during meditation, and my weekly (philosophy) Forum notebook.

I must have overcome some fears to be writing for strangers to read my innermost fears and aspirations. I have highly academic work too, and I love when people read that. I honestly do be so impressed that I wrote certain pieces, wondering how did it even happen. It happened because I soaked myself in the words of the philosopher, and I mean that quiet literally, even when I took a bath I would listen to a lecture on Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, or whatever was prevalent to my studies that day. I would drive while listening to Hegel’s ‘Phenomenology of Spirit.’ It all seeped in through my ears and swirled around for a bit before coming out onto the page in a highly logical and intellectual way.

I remember my first lecture on my Philosophy masters course. It was so amazing, I almost past out lol. I was trying so hard to listen, and take it all in, thinking how lucky I was, a girl who was written off by so many because she was thrown out of home at 15, was now sitting in rooms she hardly could even imagine in her wildest dreams. To be honest I didn’t even know if it was possible to complete it, if I was even intellectually able for it, or if my life would afford me the pleasure of sitting in a lecture hall in University College Dublin. Perhaps I was the only one who knew how much of a big deal it was for me. But it did it. And I did it in style.

It is another kinda process to write for readers, in ‘normal’ language that is for the most part understandable, maybe even relatable. Whatever journey, twists and turns my writing takes now, I’m here for it, I am dedicated to ensuring my safe space, my metaphorical little boat for navigating ‘what next’ in life is here to stay, ‘come hell or high water’ is too cliche, but it certainly helps with the existential dread.

And breathe.

If you enjoyed this you can buy me a coffee. Thanks for reading this far.