Why writing feels dangerous
by Elouise
How do I write when life is still a numbed-out muddle?
Last night I read about a woman who couldn’t get in touch with sensations in her body because she felt disconnected. Numb.
I relate to her. All my life I’ve experienced numbing out—sometimes on purpose; other times as the general go-to mode of my body. That means I feel out-of-place, lost, or just not interested in the vulnerability of connecting.
Years of neglect also hang out in my body. No wonder I get weary and can’t always stay awake emotionally. Perhaps some part of me has lost its memory or its ability to function with and for me.
And so I move on to something else instead of sitting with it. Or wondering about it, loving or even soothing it. Or welcoming it as a major part of the woman I’ve been and have become.
I’m a writer. I want to connect with what’s going on inside me, not just with thoughts running through my mind. I want to listen to myself, speak from within myself. Yet I’ve guarded so much for so long.
Can numbness lead to death? I don’t know. Perhaps I’m hiding from my voice. Sometimes I’m apprehensive about what I might discover or write and then let go. Even before I understand it fully.
From the moment I became a living human being, You’ve been there. Even when I was too terrified to be there. Too terrified to sit quietly with whatever was going on inside this woman I keep calling ‘me.’
Am I afraid right now? I want to believe You hold me close and won’t let me stray far from home. Yet I still think it’s my job to keep myself from straying. Maybe that’s why writing feels dangerous. My words are out there. I can’t control how they’re read or used or abused. Or heard and dissected.
A voice seems more fragile than a body. More connected to soul. More vulnerable to attack. Yet when I’ve done my best to be truthful, and have given it away so that the river moves on within and through me, I’m not sure what else I can do except build a dam.
I know about dams. I’ve constructed many in my lifetime. Little dams. Big dams. Complex, contorted, impenetrable dams. Trying desperately to escape the truth about me.
And what if the truth about me is beautiful? Lovely? What then? Have I killed it?
A small Christmas cactus blossom rests in front of me on my desk. A lovely, fading pinkish magenta. Its fragile petals look like limp gauze wings folded around its core. It isn’t ugly; it’s dying. Doing what lovely flowers do after giving themselves away.
It’s the only way to live. Not forever, but in this present moment. My calendar lies to me daily. It promises more than it or I can deliver. I want to live this one day as if there were no tomorrow. No more, and no less.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 January 2018, reposted 10 December 2021
Photo found at pxhere.com
Telling the Truth 
You mentioned the cactus at the end, and compared it with your life and how you feel. Let’s flip it. Let’s pretend you were sitting on the desk and the cactus was writing the essay. A plant starts off practically dead, then blossoms full of life, then withers away and dies. Like a human, it has “water” constantly in flux between its outside and inside. When it doesn’t get the right amount of water, it starts to die. If it gets too much, without any kind of “dam”, it will not be able to cope. These ‘waters’, at a higher level, for humans, are our feelings. A cactus would not write about how it gets numb, it would talk about how it literally gets dry. A cactus gets killed by nature. It doesn’t kill itself with how it handles the ‘water’. A cactus will not worry about fading away in death or being forgotten. That’s because a cactus, unlike you, doesn’t have a soul. If the cactus saw you sitting on the desk, it might marvel how a human being cares about a physical destiny that is beyond it. As for you, since the matters of the soul need to be properly watered, emotions, life, dying, seem to sometimes lose perspective, hence numbing. But unlike the cactus, life and death are two sides of the same coin for you. Your soul persists. If we seek the timeless matters of the soul, we will not worry so much about dying or cycles of nature, the flow of ‘waters’. If you have a soul, your words will never be lost or forgotten. Having a soul is overall more of a blessing than a curse. Remember the timeless hopes and values of the soul, and you can live in the forever now. Our most lamentable quality as humans beings is that we don’t ‘remember’.
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Hello, Imad. Thanks for your thoughtful response. In many ways, I agree with your analysis. At the same time, I can’t divide my soul from my body–a female body not honored in childhood or youth, and sometimes treated as an ‘alien’ or intruder within the contexts of my educational and professional work. For me, this reality heightens the risk of speaking (or writing) my mind.
For me, there’s a difference between speaking my mind and caring too much about the way others perceive my words or my message. Souls are wonderful; so are bodies. This blog is my effort to tell the truth and come to terms with the way I was treated (in my body and soul) as a child and teenager. Though this began with my father (an ordained clergyman), I’ve also experienced similar abuse from some of my employers and colleagues. This blog is my attempt to tell the truth in writing about ways I’ve been shamed, humiliated and silenced. Not so I can claim victory, but so I can let my own voice be heard without apology or trying to be a “good girl.”
I love my Christmas cactus (which blooms in November!). Assuming I do my part, all it has to do is grow, bloom, die, and then begin the cycle again. I believe having a soul (as well as a body) is a huge blessing, though not always comfortable. Part of my discomfort comes from the reality of being put down (directly or indirectly) as a woman. Thanks again for your comment. I do believe my past is still catching up with my soul. That’s why I write, and why I’m grateful for comments that help me think things through.
Elouise
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Hello Elouise,
Thank you once again for giving me new insight about why I write. So spot on. A gift. Thank you 🙏🏼
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You’re most welcome, dw, as always.
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I love this. Insightful ❤️
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Thank you for visiting and following. 🙂
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