fear | The Kingdom of Matt

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One of the worst things for a writer is finding difficulty in expressing yourself. As a blogger, writing isn’t just a medium for me to splurge my thoughts but a way for me to work through so many things. It’s a place where I can use backspace. I can take my time or I can write quickly and you’ll still end up understanding. Writing is a way to unwind.

At least it’s supposed to be.

I don’t know if this is something which just affects a few people, or if it’s something that spreads across the entire world. But right now, as I’m typing this, it’s hard for the words to come. I’ve always been proud of my ability to write. To form sentences into paragraphs which are, at best, a little entertaining to read. And, even more, coming from a family where every member had to re-sit their english exams, my enjoyment and ability to use English has always slightly tickled me.

So I’m sure you can understand how deep my panic runs when writing becomes an endless battle with my delete button. Sentences are wiped into nothingness. Words are highlighted and changed. And changed and changed and changed. If I were a copy-editor, I’d smile at my proficiency at ripping writing apart.

But I’m not smiling.

I’ve always been one of those guys that has to cling to something to feel secure. An expertise. A skill. A certain set of knowledge. While it screams of dependency issues and somesuchery, I can’t help realise that there is sore truth in my need to feel secure. And you know what? My capabilities with using english have, for at least the past year, fulfilled that.

One part of me wants to label that this is a sign of things to come. That my writer’s gag — my sudden difficulties with writing — are only the beginning of a hurricane on the horizon.

Another part of me just wants to plaster the “I’m having a bad day sign” on it and leave it to boil down to nothingness.

But I’m not having a bad day.

I’m an expert at ending things on a bad note. But I’ve promised myself that I can’t do that anymore. The header (the first thing you see, at the very top of the page), is bright and colourful for a reason. Even though I know I can be the most negative nancy in the world, I’m determined to not be like this; to not become my mother(!). And if that means being a positive penelope, then I’m sure it couldn’t hurt, you know?

And right now, I can help but remember a pagan prayer I once heard:

I am peaceful, I am strong

Though dark may seem forever long

For day must follow every night

Everything is now alright

I am always safe from harm

The goddess holds me in her arms

And while I am very agnostic, I know for sure that my night — my writer’s gag — will soon be dispelled. Of that I am sure.

Oh, and just so you know, I’m not describing writer’s block here. Writer’s block, in my eyes, is when you can’t think of what the next words are. When you don’t know what to write next. I have a million ideas, I just can’t get them out fast enough before my backspace finger does them in.

I’m scared for you to read this. I’m scared that what you’re about to know about me are things I’ve kept from people through my entire life. No one knows. No one knew.

–

As much as I hate to admit it, with the steady transition into adulthood now beginning to reach its final stages, I can’t help but to reflect on all the different changes and parts of myself that have appeared over time. Out of everything, though, in the past three years the one thing that really sticks out to me is the way in which I’ve come to understand the depths to which my emotions run. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m no where near the most sensitive guy in the world. I’ll step on toes. I’ll say stupid stuff. I’ll even sometimes take jokes a bit too far. To be sexist to myself: I’m a d00d. That’s how we roll — well, mostly.

But no. That’s not entirely fair on myself. I’m not just a d00d. I’m the guy that’s been to hell and back. And I have therapists who will agree with me on that. Growing up hasn’t been easy, especially living in a household which was and is frequently rife with conflict between my parental units; though, albeit, they are courteous enough to curtail it in front of friends, generally.

And in some ways, I think I have to thank my parents for the acrid, poisonous pain they’ve caused me through my life. While they’ve given me many years of time in therapy, they’ve also allowed me to see what it’s like to be on the other side. You know. The side only found when you’re still awake at 2AM because you’ve cried so much it physically hurts to breathe. The side only found when you’ve contemplated — repeatedly, to the point of not being able to know how many times — of killing yourself. And when you’ve had the means to do so. I’ve been there. I’ve almost done that.

But you know what? I treasure those moments. In a very real way, those moments have provided me with an insight not many other people in the world can truly understand. And that’s why I value them so, so dearly. They allow you to see a world which no one else sees. And, maybe, I don’t know, they carved a hole for me to see the true emotions hidden under all the layers. The angst. The anger.

And, currently, the empty, gnawing fear. I won’t admit it. Not to anyone but you. But it’s there. It’s twisting my stomach invisibly. Waiting for my moment of weakness so that it can rise up my throat like the moment just before you vomit. Ugh. Horrible imagery.

I won’t pretend my life has been easy. And, likewise, I will never pretend my life has been filled with hardship. I live in a middle-class family in a middle-class village in a pretty middle-class area. My family has, for the most part, been financially comfortable throughout my entire life. And I know that there are so many people out there that would probably overload with joy if they swapped places with me. And, likewise, I know that there are also endless amounts of people that live in their McMansions that wouldn’t even recognize the luxury that I live in.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter. Whether or not my life has been an epic romance or tragedy is, honestly, not important. The moment is important for me. Treasuring the fact that I don’t have to worry about war or famine or losing a family member to cancer. Not now. Never before. Possible in the future. But right now, there is safety. And peace. And health.

And I value that. My darkness has shown me just how important it is to recognize the light in my life. And for that, I am happy. No matter how strong this fear is. No matter what happens. I’ll treasure the soft things in my life. The feel of a cat’s fur under my hand, or the cotton wool, buzzy feeling in my head when I’ve been on a long run or even the tender peace a song can evoke in me.

I’m grateful for my darkness and my pain. Not so that I can appease some ‘Law of Attraction’ or anything like that. Simply because I know that without the chord of despair, I wouldn’t be even a fraction of the person — the man — I am now.

Tag Archive: fear

Writer’s Gag

Gratitude.