[Michah]

Ever since I could read at the age of 3, my father has gently and firmly entrenched the notion in me that I should write, or, to specify, become an author. My love of words was evident from a young age and I treated them like playthings and beings of wonder. I was in awe of words and everyday for many years, I would pick five words a day and memorise their meaning, but I did little else with them, other than roll them about in my mouth like I was savouring a tasty morsel. Instead, I loved and practiced science and that was to become my landscape.

I still wrote things occasionally, especially as a tool to expunge from my body, intense and lonely feelings of teenage hood, as well as feelings that existed but not understood. I tried to use words to colour and bring to life my experience and as a young adult, bring written pieces to therapy when asked. I remember the first piece I was asked to write was about anger, and the thing was so dark and filled with danger and dread, that my T was a little unnerved and distressed to learn that under my unwillingness to cooperate, there lay a deep sea of comprehension.

"I did not know you could write like that!"

And I said......

"Well, you never asked me."

And so she got me to write and write and write until I hated it.

I have Aspergers Syndrome with "savant-like presentations in language among other things" according to my current T who is an AS specialist psych. I also have dyslexia. Yep, go figure on that one. But "savantism" and "dyslexia" are 2 different wirings neurologically so it is not impossible, but it is incredibly frustrating. My love of words tainted with my inability sometimes to spell them or get letters around the wrong way, or not be able to think of the words I am trying to say, is Hell on Earth.

Which leads me to the theme of this thread (please forgive my digressions. It is my love of words again that inhibits me from getting to the point). I decided, after years of my father probing me and casting mysterious statements like "You must realise your potential" and other such words of meaning but lacking the fundamental understanding of them, to write a book. And it was undertaking this mammoth and terrifying task, that I understood real vulnerability and the dreadful and bottomless feeling that I truly lacked self-esteem. And not just casual doubts about my ability as a writer, but my abilities as a human being. I could not cast off these tormenting fears with some cognitive skill mastered, or self platitudes of "positive thinking".

I have days where I am crippled by fear and self-doubt, where I have come close to ripping my precious manuscript to shreds in a delusional fit of rage and accusing my father of filling my head with HOPE! I have had days where I have screamed at my family in impotent fury "I CANNOT write this garbage any longer! How DARE you tell me that I can!!" and they would try and console me and tell me over and over again that it is not easy, what I am doing, that ALL writers struggle with themselves, in the search for their truth.

And the truth is, is that I am a coward and filled with self-loathing. After years of being told by various individuals who obviously did not love me, that "For someone who has some modicum of intelligence, you sure are stupid sometimes", I still believe it! Ah, the day that I realised, "Ha! You are not as enlightened as you thought, Michah. You truly are stupid for you could not see the wood for the trees!!" I fell in to such deep depression, that I wondered if I would ever come out of it. I have been in it for 6 months now with varying degrees of intensity, and most likely, I should be on some medication of some sort but refuse. And I still spew out the words even while crying and pulling out my hair, lamenting the loss, that of which I never had, self-love and the self-cherished. Oh, the dastardly realisation of terrible incompleteness!

Despite my shock, I am not surprised. For this is the first time in my life that I have endeavoured to undertake something truly risky. There is much of myself bound up in this journey to write. Maybe it is through writing that I have seen my flaws for the first time in their true light, not coloured by my misconceptions of myself. Writing is like looking in a very clear mirror with no hope of distorting the image to make it more palatable

"So, Self-esteem, my dear friend, where are you? I could really use some help right now. My Ego says you need to pay a visit so we can chat about the future."

Thanks for listening.

Michah

Hello, Michah. Who's potential? Who's book? Who's risk? Has any part of this been done as your choice?

P.S. - What a wonderful writer you are.

[Michah]

Originally Posted by TheByzantine

Hello, Michah. Who's potential? Who's book? Who's risk? Has any part of this been done as your choice?

P.S. - What a wonderful writer you are.

Thanks Byz. It made me smile.....

And yes I have asked myself the same question......is this my quest or the desire of another?

But I keep coming back to doing it because even though I hate it at times, I love it to. Writing has brought my battle with myself to the surface, and my writing has both disturbed and brought joy to some, I guess.

Oh, and I am in love with words!!! I can think of words and stare in to space with a look of ecstacy on my face. My fiance will say to me "what are you thinking of?" and I will say dreamily "Oh, just words". He looks at me and says "Oh. You looked like you where thinking of icecream or something really good."

Love it, hate it.......do it anyway because I cannot imagine doing anything else. And when the fear is overwhelming, I scurry back to algebra or my precious hardcover copy of Charles Darwins' "Origin of Species'......ahhhh the comfort zones.

Writing is a test to myself.......I hope that explains the dichotomy within

Michah