A piece on trying to work through emotional turmoil as a writer in a Facebook-heavy world.
Delving into pain, caused by examination of thoughts resulting from a previous injury. A falling out with a… not a friend. Friends don’t abuse you. A person.
Ding! Notification - who is it? Someone who cares? Momentary validation? Antiseptic for the pain my head? Distraction from the cause of my pain?
No, stick with it, Broderick. Delve deep. Deep down. Why did it hurt when they said you were worthless? What was it about being mistreated that made you feel this way? These incisions can’t be fully healed, look, I see a suture still inside the emotional scar tissue, let’s pull.
Ding! Notification.Who is it? Someone with relief? Something funny? Antiseptic to help me pick apart my badly healed scabs. That’s never gonna heal if you don’t stop picking…
So let’s pick some more. Delve. Artists need pain to fuel themselves, right? The great Trent Reznor, writing his opus in his bathtub. I hurt myself today and every day, and I already know I can feel but I want to know how much. How much childhood trauma can I lift up if I just pick right here.
Ding! Notification. Who is it? Some asshole telling me I’m wrong on the internet. No, buddy. YOU’RE wrong on the internet, and here’s a list of reasons why. I’m the queen of the takedown, the ultimate troll, I’m such an intellectual badass, I’m…
God I’m so awful. Why do I do that? Why do I get so worked up fighting with strangers I’ll never have coffee with to apologize for what a bitch I was.
Stick with it, Broderick. Deep deep delving. Self loathing, that’s the place we need to go. That’s where the real trauma is. You’re fat now? Hey, weren’t you fat before? Didn’t your first boyfriend call you fat? And your dance teacher? And your father? Fat. Fat fat fatty. No self-respect. No self-control. How could I ever be a good mother?
Ding! Notification. Who is it? Nobody. An event coming up that I can’t go to because I’m 1500 miles away. The invitation is enough, though. Totally. You know I would be there if I lived closer. I definitely wouldn’t make an excuse to stay home and pick at these scars.
Delve.
Ding.
Delve.
Ding.
There’s got to be something better. I’d find out what it is, but while I was typing and editing this, I got two, make that three, no now four notifications, and I have to go.
