Finding My Voice

Why did I stop writing? And when? I can’t remember and don’t have an answer to either of those questions. All I know is that it’s gone. I’m gone. Or least a part of me is. And make no mistake, writing was an essential part of me. It was who I was in a lot of ways. I think I stopped from a combination of meds and a loss of passion. A loss passion because of the meds? Hmm.

That’s not to say I’m not still passionate about certain things. At least deep down inside somewhere. So, think, Ter’esa; what were you passionate about? The death penalty. Mental health issues and the stigma surrounding them. My husband. Politics.

I am still passionate about the death penalty, but what else can I say that I haven’t already said? And who will listen anyway? I lost my platform years ago. Maybe THAT’S where the end began. I feel like my research and passionate writing used to make a difference. Not so much anymore. I just don’t have much more to say on the subject.

Maybe I lost a bit of my passion for writing with the evolution of social media. Everything is a virtual soundbite these days. Like 150 words or less or you lose their attention. Not to mention, no one wants to take the time to really read an essay these days. Virtual soundbites. And no one wants to hear/ read anything that’s less than positive. It’s like being asked “How are you”? and any answer beyond “Fine” or “Good” make people uncomfortable. Gawd forbid we would be honest and risk causing another human to be caring, empathetic or uncomfortable.

Mental health issues have been addressed by anyone and everyone over and over on repeat. That includes me. I have written extensively about my struggles with my mental health over the years. What is there left to say. I sound like a broken record and again, who wants to be uncomfortable hearing and thinking about someone else’s struggle? Plus, it’s got to get boring to read the same shit as the last entry.

Politics, politics, politics. Oh, what is there to even say? I gave up on writing about politics sometime around 2016. Can you guess why? There is NOTHING to say that anyone will listen to; on either side. People that hate Trump already do and always will hate him. Nothing really to say to them that they don’t already know. People who love the freak and his sycophants in congress will always love him and become violent (verbally and sometimes physically) if you try to make them see any kind of light. So, yeah. No politics.

My husband. Still a lot of passion about that man. Passion about who he is. What he does (for me, for others). His mere existence. My husband inspires poetry in me and the majority of my (past) poetic writings were written for and about him. I have started writing low-grade, mediocre poetry again. It’s a work in progress. But maybe I’ll get better. Maybe my emotions will spill over again. Some day.

For now, I’ll keep trying.

For my friend that suggested this topic (kinda), thank you. I got something down on paper. And that’s a good start.
Jezzie