At my weekly writing circle with Zee Zahava, we always sit for a minute together without words. Then we pick up our “inspirations” for the night, take out our pens and paper, and write.
Last night I took a postcard with the one-liner cat, a pen and ink sketch by the British designer Alan Fletcher.
I took a square of black paper, which turned out to be a dark brown.
I took an “Admit One” ticket.
1
But where am I? In a good place, but too busy. Always busy. Always behind.
This is the way I set up my life, assigning more and more tasks until I feel overburdened and let something drop.
Am I on a treadmill or running through a maze, bumping into random corners and dead ends?
I could wake up tomorrow and throw away my to-do lists. I could wake up tomorrow and plan a new life. I could wake up tomorrow and do something else.
I could.
2
I am jealous of the one-liner cat. Not the cat, but the artist who drew it.
I am tired of my messy, complicated art and yearn for the spare expressive line surrounded by negative space.
In fact, that’s what my life is missing—negative space.
3
I tried to find a piece of red paper and a piece of black paper. Black for depression. Red for mania. The black and red poles of my life.
But the black paper is really a dark brown—apt, after all, for a life that sank deep into the muddy waters, but always eventually came up for air.
I understand the wish for annihilation, but not the actual going there.
The closest I ever got to a suicide attempt was holding a bottle of aspirin and wondering if taking them all would kill me.
The second closest was going out my bedroom window onto the porch roof with the intent to jump off it.
1) I would only have broken a leg.
2) I only wanted to do it to demonstrate to John how hurt I was by his inattention.
3) I was a coward who avoided physical pain.
I want to be clear about avoiding physical pain because I certainly embraced all the emotional pain I could get my heart around.
Do those of us who embrace this kind of pain have more sensitive antennae?
Or do we just mess up our lives more than most?
I think of my sister Laura, who always seems to be in control and in charge of her life. She always has practical advice for me when I screw up mine.
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After reflecting, I decide that we are all suffering emotional pain.
I may be crying louder, that’s all.
4
I picked up an “Admit One” ticket, but seem to have lost it.
I am sad at the thought that all I need now is a ticket for one.
But it is true.
5
I always get nervous when we are together without words.
We walk and talk. What would happen if we just walked?
When I am silent, you speak.
Why am I not silent more?
