scribbles and heartburn
I need to remember what an affirmative thing writing is sometimes. Recording something doesn’t make me feel better about an issue; in Nora Ephron’s words:
“I think you often have that sense when you write–that if you can spot something in yourself and set it down on paper, you’re free of it. And you’re not, of course; you’ve just managed to set it down on paper, that’s all.”
but I feel like it can underline and affirm an option. If I’m pondering various sides of a knotty issue, or considering between alternatives, exploring the issue in writing and then coming to a conclusion almost says “THIS is the course of action, or the position I choose.” I suppose that’s a roundabout way of expressing the simple fact that writing is helpful to me when it comes to processing complex issues, but I need to constantly remind myself of that as I type and type, chucking pennies into the void with no real emotional return, and it all feels completely futile. In a perfect world, writing would do 3 things for me: Liberate me emotionally of whatever I’m writing about, help me deliberately examine all sides of an issue and arrive at a definite conclusion, and just provide an opportunity to exercise the mental muscles of verbal self-expression. As it happens, though, the first is exceedingly rare, the second happens occasionally but not often as I’d like (witness how many times I revisit the same subject), and so I’m typically left with just the rote practice of mapping my thoughts onto a screen or page as the only constructive outcome of this activity. And really, that’s OK; sometimes just doing the thing is the thing. But in these times, I can’t help but want more, as the world floods and my olive-branched dove flits wearily over what feels like the endless surface of the endless deep. Why can’t I just pour my feelings out onto the screen where they’ll be kept, locked away behind glass, taxidermied specimens of Past Matt’s Emotional State for me to casually stroll by and say “Hmm; that’s interesting” before finding the gift shop and buying a refrigerator magnet or two?
The world is drowning. Our country’s leaders and vast army of enablers, both in the government itself and the utterly apathetic voting public, are driving us off the bridge, and it feels like it’s only a matter of time before something institutional gives way and triggers a crisis that will make this so-far mitigated encroachment seem quaint. Everything is in flux family-wise; I’m becoming acclimated to the new normal, praise God, but it would be a very tender time under normal circumstances, and D, for all her resentment over “being evicted,” is getting exactly what she wanted—responsibility-free singleness—and is checked out even more than she was when she was here, so it feels like I’m shepherding two young adults through a complex web of decisions completely alone. And then the breakup. It’s a lot, and it takes its toll, and I wish, oh how I wish I could express everything here and find solace, but I flatly type and the words stubbornly refuse to absorb any real emotion in a liberating way.
It takes faith to believe this is constructive. Writing is a means AND an end, but I have to be intentional to recognize the ends, and it gets exhausting sometimes. But it helps that I can look back on past instances where I think writing helped me arrive at some kind of conclusion, even if that conclusion just amounts to “getting everything out of my head and onto a page so I can stare at it.” That’s not nothing, and I recognize that, but I wish the sense of satisfaction would pervade me more thoroughly. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing.