I Write

I write. I have this Monkey that sits on my shoulder. From time to time it gets down into my ear and does a cannonball like flip into my stomach, where it then pulls itself up into a knot in my chest and eventually rests on the lump in my throat. Sometimes I go days choking on the words that have been brought up from my heart, it is unfortunate that this is the only way I can connect what I say with how I feel. As if the veil were never torn see my heart is caged by this grey matter that enacted some sort of autopilot in me. I am on a merry go round and the world is spinning around me I keep my eyes fixed above me and the few times the chaos begins to slow enough, that is when all the emotion Comes rushing up and I spew it out gasping for air in between. I hear a voice inside that tells me this is not real; I must have not survived some incident and this place I am in/that is in me, is my purgatory where anxious and blindfolded I wait. Everyone is the same yet different Like the book “The Langeliers” by Stephen King, I must have blinked and became engulfed in some black hole, I look down at my hands completely covered in black matter. I close my eyes and try to sense my kids, my family, anything familiar, but the taste even though slightly familiar is flat. I am paralyzed and trying to make contact. I mouth out the words “Wake me up.” The only voice that comes out is that of the monkey, I look at the people around me and without words I ask, “Did you hear that?” but they do not hear a thing. I close my eyes attempting to escape it. Motionless I listen to the stone-cold screams of the silence and a constant howling that only gets closer, so then I open my eyes to escape it. It tries to follow, and I quickly pick up my composition book as my armer, my pen becomes my sword I go into battle. Sometimes the only way out is the way I came in and sometimes I am far in before I realize it. I begin to search for crumbs left behind from my falling apart. I feel as if I am in a time capsule and the navigation has begun to malfunction. I open the pages of my journal and the words illuminate like a map. I can retrace my steps. There are days I am so exhausted I fall asleep inside of the pages and they wrap me up in their embrace and carry me to safety. I am here. I am alone but I am here. I consider I am much like an alien and then I wonder what an alien is, how do you describe one without using words made up by man. My subconscious stands on my shoulders as these thoughts begin to flood me and just as the water begins to reach my nose a being dressed in a white suit with blue pinstripes reaches out a hand to wipe my eyes and embraces me with warmth and belonging, I am consumed by a light feeling that says, “Wont you tell me all about it?” It begins, Words are spilling out and filling in the lines trapping the monkey, with all its doubt, inside. Six O’clock becomes clear again and that grey matter that once made up the sarcophagus that encased my heart comes alive as if a spell has been lifted, in all resilience it finds its way back to where it belongs on this vessel. I learn a little more about myself and become a little more familiar, a little more aware of the passenger on board that seeks to sink my ship. My name is Gabrielle Jourden Garland, I search my soul, I search the universe, and I write to escape it.

How did it start.

Understanding where this all came from... I do not completely understand it myself. I have always loved to read. My granny would buy me novels when I was about 11 or 12 and I would have them read within a few days. I cannot put my finger exactly on when the reading reversed itself and I began to write, but I can remember my granny saying that I was going to author a book one day. I even tried a few times at about 17, sitting staring at the cursor as in would blink, and I went blank every. Single. Time. Not that I did not have quite a bit to write about, because let's face it most 17-year-old girls have already experienced enough tragedy to last a lifetime, right? I opted to close the word tab and really get my feet wet. At 21 I had three kids and was already divorced and on to the next. About two years into my new fairytale relationship something went terribly wrong, so wrong that even the word tragedy supplies no justice in describing. I had my jaw broken and was drug around in front of my small children for hours, and because of this lost custody of them. I would go into detail, however that is not the focus today. I lost my kids, my home, my dog, my pride, my family and then eventually my sobriety. Something I have struggled with since moving in with my dad at about 12/13. Here I was 22 and homeless in the stockyards of Fort Worth Texas. I put a needle in my arm. I’m not sure why, but alone and in a dirty bathroom at a Gameroom, I put a needle in my arm. The monkey was born. I picked up a composition book and a pen and thus began my love letter to my kids. My letter of reasoning to the universe. I thought about all the things that my kid’s heads would be filled with if I died like this and by people that did not even know me. I refused to allow this, so in my journals I began to explain my mindset, because who better to tell my kids who I was than me. This went on for about 3 years until I fought like hell to regain sobriety. I was living with someone that told me how dumb my writing was. To have a chance I would have to not only stop but get rid of what I loved so much. I thought about it momentarily and comforted myself with the thought that I no longer would have to explain anything to my kids through my writing, I was going to live, and I could show them.

Moment of Truth

It was not as easy as I thought. Starting over with three angry preteens. I lost myself somewhere in that timeframe. I fought so hard and for so long and my kids were my life. The only problem is that left no room for me. When I write It is like hearing yourself say it aloud. I realize just how minute my “problems” really are. I can retrace to exactly where I fell, I cannot change anything, but I can grow from it. This growth is also measurable through my journal. I can take apart situations and compare the way I reacted to the way I react. Without my journal I am lost. During this time that was supposed to be the great recovery, I was not writing, and I was losing myself and the kids would not stop, as if they wanted me to fail. I held fast and I pushed myself as hard as I could for about 5 years. Then it happened right as Covid hit, the pressure exploded and the roof caved in. My courage failed. I relapsed. Once again, I picked up pen and composition. Knee on the steering wheel and one eye on the road, I began to pour myself out onto those precious sheets. This time I am writing for me. I am writing for you; I am writing for the person that hates addicts and everything they stand or fall for. All the pain, all the thoughts. I share every moment in hopes that someone will gain something from it, even if only insight.

Where does it Begin?

A few months ago, I found out the guy that broke my jaw was going to be getting out after ten years. My heart fell completely out of my chest thinking about everything that was lost. Our inability to control ourselves that night cost both of us our lives. I began making copies of what I had written. As if offering a truce, I sent them to him. We were only kids. I needed him to know that I understood and that I forgave him. Hopefully, he would forgive me too. Which leads me to this. I have started to open and share what I hold so dear. I am considering publishing them on Vocal. My heart beats hard to escape my chest. This is my purpose. My calling. This is some higher love reaching its hand out through me and if I can open the mind of only one person than it is complete. My name is Gabrielle and I write because well, I was born to.