When Speaking Is Hard

This year is almost over and it has been exciting and tumultuous.  Not just in terms of the politics of our nation... but in my own life.

My perspectives, goals, dreams, and core have changed in a very profound way this year.  The biggest change? 

My voice.

I've loved writing since I was very young.  It was a dumb hobby back then.  For years I hated my creative stories... My poems... My songs... My little inspirational quotes... But I couldn't help but continue to write. 

I was very hypercritical of my work.  More often than not, I'd tear up stacks of my papers as they were so juvenile compared to the books on my shelves. 

Why should I keep this up when C.S. Lewis did it better?  Is my hackneyed attempt even readable compared to the works of Chaucer, Shakespeare, or Poe?  If my stories can never reach Rowling status... If my literature about utopias is nothing next to Rand, Orwell, or Collins... What is the point?

Despite this, I still wrote.

In my sadness... In the pain of never having faith that I'd ever write anything halfway decent... I let my voice mature and bleed onto the pages of notebooks.

Over time, my notebook turned into a computer.  From there, I found avenues to let my voice become bolder... louder.  I experimented with making my own comics.  Movies out of Powerpoint slides.  I met people in other countries in chat rooms.  This let me discuss and exchange ideas of all sorts from all cultures... Which just cultivated my writing skill even more.  I mean... You can't discuss Final Fantasy with a Romanian or coffee with a Canadian and not pick up fresh and wonderful perspectives.

It was in 9th grade where my English teacher showed an overwhelming level of support for my "work." 

"Work?"  It was not "work."  "Work" is something respectable.  You sweat, bleed, and give it your all.  At the end of the day, you go home satisfied knowing you did something.

I sat at a desk writing fan fictions about Rinoa and Squall... Military fictions inspired by my favorite Tom Clancy tales... Poems about love, truth, and justice...

That wasn't work.  I didn't deserve to call it that.

She insisted that I had a gift, so... I let her tell me that until I started to believe it too.

10th grade was a time of massive introspection for me.  I went the entire year single and read.  I was obsessed with philosophy.  Zen Buddhism gave way to a lifelong love of no-mindedness.  From here, I started practicing martial arts.  This led me to discover Jeet Kune Do.  The philosophy was wonderful and I adopted it into all aspects of my life.

"Take what is useful... Discard what is useless... Make it your own."

Suddenly every religious tome and Greek parable... Every lesson in books, films, or songs... I found my peace and guidance in all the world around me.

I was not limited to any one religion... I could find worth in them all.  I was not bound by one idea... I could believe several.

The best part?  By accepting the notion of more than one set of beliefs... I would never be bound to refuse the lessons of another.

I could do unto others as I would want done unto myself... But also believe in Karma.  I could see the folly of Icarus... Learn from it... Without dismissing it because it was from a polytheistic society.

To develop this sort of acceptance and understanding was humbling and enlightening.

In my last 3 years of high school, another teacher took a special interest in me.  Ms.  Luhn.  She was, in a huge way, the Mr. Feeny to my Cory Matthews.  If it wasn't for her, I would not have turned into the devoted writer I am today. 

In 2005, I graduated high school and joined the Air Force.  My goal?  Military Intelligence.

However, unforeseen and unavoidable things were happening within me... Things that I never could have anticipated.

Things that devastated my future and almost cost me my life.

It was there that I discovered...

Those sad feelings...

That critical voice in my mind...

Emotions that helped me convey prose and ideas...

They were an undiagnosed disorder.

I was Bipolar.

My dreams of serving in the military... Of one day joining the CIA... Dashed by a chemical and mental imbalance.

It crippled me.  Sometimes... it still does.

For years the depression was so intense, it almost cost me my life.  Suicidal thoughts gave way to attempts. 

Still I wrote.

I was disabled.  My disorder so severe, I could never work again.

Still... I wrote.

I tried to make relationships work, but the stress of my disorder cost me more than I'd care to admit.  Dates and relationships that ended prematurely.  I felt like nothing.  That only a job could define me as someone of worth.

Still...

I wrote. 

I wrote often.  I wrote passionately.  I wrote with feeling.  With conviction. 

My sense of humor was evident in parodies... In jokes.  My philosophical ideals were the theme in my stories.  My thoughts on beauty, truth, and love were in every poem.  I journaled.  I blogged.  I posted.  I created.

Then... I found my way to 2016.

I posted a joke.  A silly joke on a Facebook page.  "Adult Side of Tumblr."  It was nothing.  Just me being... me.

The next day... 100 likes.

Wait... 100 people liked it?

2 hours later... 400 more.

Was it really that funny?

Over the next few days, the words from people who saw my joke were so positive.  Support from those who laughed... Who shared... Who commented... It was an unreal feeling.

This was the year when something profound happened.

I started to believe in myself.

I write jokes now.  Op eds.  I make memes.  I spark debates.  I defend my ideas but I am open to other opinions. 

I am flourishing as a writer... Not because I didn't have support before this year... But because I was finally able to believe in myself.

To all those who laughed at my jokes... To those who have messaged me directly... To those who have stayed up debating politics with me...

I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay.  You helped me claim my life back.

I still struggle with my disorder...

I still judge my writings... My stories... My articles... My words...

But I no longer put quotations around these words:  My work.

This is my work. 

This is my work and I love it.

It's not easy.  In fact, although there has been an amazing amount of positive support... I have received a lot of negative attention too.

Threats... Insults... And worse.

At these times, it is hardest to stay positive. 

But then I remember my favorite book passages...

My favorite movie lines...

I remember the plot of a video game...

The lyric of a beloved song...

Or a quote (Ok... Tweet) of a celebrity I admire...

I smile.

And I keep writing.