I used to write

I want to write. I am sitting at my desk, at my job as a language teacher and I want to write. A few hours ago I was teaching my tribal language to four students. Then I graded some papers. And I am so friggin’ done with it.

I want to write. I always have. I have written many times, many things. The younger I was, the more constant my writing was. In fact, I call my early college years the Word Salad years, because I wrote so constantly. I wrote in journals. I wrote in binders. I wrote on napkins. I wrote on the computer. I wrote on blogs. I wrote everything and anything. I loved writing poetry the best. I would occasionally write short stories. At some point, I did a bit of non-fiction essay writing. My god, I used to write with such fervor.

I don’t write like that anymore, and it’s annoying, because I still carry a journal with me everywhere I go, with a stupid pouch of colored pens, and in the past month of 2022, I’ve managed to write a whopping three poems, including the one I wrote moments ago. But man, I used to write like my life depended on it.

I hate that I look back at my youth and think, “that poor damaged baby, she really thought she was going to be the next fuckin’ Shakespeare.” It’s funny because I think I tried getting published at various places where I referred to myself as the indigenous, white-passing Shakespeare. I wouldn’t have fuckin’ read my shit either if I’d gotten a manuscript with a description like that.

I want to write. My writing took me places. Not physical places. But writing took me out of myself. I don’t know how to get that back. I don’t know to become the person I used to be, so that I might sit down for hours at the computer and type away about an idea where people could have wings.

Some people say that it’s because I’ve changed. I agree, but I don’t think I’ve changed for the better. I was recently diagnosed as pre-diabetic, so my changes haven’t been marvelous to say the least.

Ten years ago, I could sit down and books and comics like they were actual dinners. I recently told my therapist that a lot of my depression lies in the fact that once upon a fuggin’ time, I was able to read upwards of ten books a month, not counting graphic novels. I could read much more graphic novels than I could books. My therapist asked me how many books I read last year, and I said three. I read three books last year out of pure joy. I read three books last year because I wanted to. I read three books last year because I had some time to waste.

I then told my therapist that I also read several books for curriculum research. History books about the standard indigenous plight. I don’t even really feel as though I read them. I skimmed them until I found the knowledge I needed to beef up a lesson plan that no one ended up giving a shit about.

My therapist said it was good that I was at least reading. Until I told him that I kept buying books and graphic novels as though I still had it on my agenda to read them in a timely manner. Believe me, the amount of books I have around my house is embarrassingly large. All interesting titles. All amusing subjects. All collecting dust on a shelf or some manner of table. Then my therapist encouraged me either to stop buying books or to get rid of the towering stacks of literature that now created a castle of misery in which I blanched at every time I stared too long at them.

“I miss reading!” I beckoned to no one. “I miss writing!”

I think they go hand in hand. If I was moved by a good novel, or collection of essays, it encouraged me to write my thoughts on such and such subject. I was a younger person back then, a person who had the energy after a long day of work to sit down and dive into another world or create one of her own.

I would go read in coffee shops, bookstores, shitty diners, or (my personal favorite) Alki Beach near Seattle. I’d battle the Seattle traffic just to make it to Alki Beach by or before sundown (depending on the season) and I’d get out and sit on a bench and write, or (if it was too peopley outside) I’d sit in my car and get inspired and write long passages in my journal. Hell, I even wrote a few suicide notes at Alki Beach (more on that another time). I’d treat myself to dinner at my favorite sandwich shop that I’ve been going to since I was a small child, and if I was up for it, I’d go check out the CD shop on the corner. Or the art store.

I’m not the same person I was five years ago. Or even three years ago. And who I am now? I loathe her. I loathe her more than I did previously simply because we are no longer writing and reading as we once did.

You don’t understand. You’re probably thinking it’s writers block or something. It isn’t. Because once I decided to sit down and type this out, I haven’t been able to stop for more than twenty minutes and it’s two pages long on a word document. This has nothing to do with not being inspired; it’s about being drained of the energy to create. I spend all day at work creating curriculum and teaching a nearly dead language, and at the end of the day, it’s easier to get involved in my video games or a movie than it is to pick up a book or a journal and just write.

Also, I don’t know that I like my house enough to write in it. When I lived in the apartment, there were never-ending swells of creativity going. I lived in the city, across from the jail, it was hard NOT to be inspired.

Sure, I can be gauche and blame this on the pandemic, but I don’t think it’s solely the pandemics fault (what a thought!). When I moved out onto the reservation after a decade of living in the city, all my favorite places stopped being accessible. I fell out of touch with the comic book store. I didn’t go to my favorite second hand shops. I wasn’t walking to 711 for a Winner’s Meal (for those of you who don’t know, a Winner’s Meal is the name I gave to a 711 hotdog and a slurpee. I say it with much sarcasm). No longer could I look out my window and watch the fights in the alley.

Instead, I moved to the rez, and now I spend my time watching out for raccoons and rez dogs. Hardly inspirational. Or maybe I’m just not open to the experience. I fought long and hard to get back to the rez because I thought that once here, I’d host game nights and pizza parties and movies nights with my friends and family. So when that never happened (because coordinating with other people was a chore that I never got good at), I gave up entirely and became a shut in. THEN! The pandemic happened! And I might have been a slight shut in, now I’m a complete recluse.

Mental illness has a wonderful way of turning on you literally all the time. Even when I think I’m doing okay, a pandemic comes along and now I don’t go out anymore and I’m afraid of people (more than I used to be), and I’ve lost pretty much all the friends I worked so hard to gain.

But, I used to write and I used to read. I didn’t realize how much I was going to change once I moved into a house on the rez. I used to do National Novel Writing Month, and I haven’t done that since I moved here. I used to do the Three Day Novel challenge and I stopped doing that about two years ago (I had a great idea for a story and got halfway finished when I realized I wouldn’t make it to the end of the story in three days). I still partake in National Poetry Month, but only because it’s the fuckin’ least I can do as a writer.

By the way, I have an Associate’s Degree in Creative Writing. It’s like, once I got it, I stopped writing. I still always keep my journal with me, but sometimes it’s a huge pain in the ass taking it out of my purse.

Sure, this is all probably depression’s fault. I am very depressed. I am also ADHD, but that used to fuel my creative sparks. Now it hinders them. I feel like everything changed and I had no time to adjust and I miss the way things were.

I want to write. I have no idea what I want to write about. I have stories that need to be finished. I have poems that could be edited. I have ideas. I want to write. Even though I have no audience. I miss being able to express myself through these means. Losing that in my depression is akin to destroying a relationship with a loved one. Maybe it’ll heal itself and I’ll come back together or maybe that’s the end of it.

Either way, I still want to write.