A Love More Than Words

You’re the only person I know who makes me hate words. This is no sweet nothing. I mean, how could you? Words are my thing. They’re all I’ve got. It’s a fact and a frustration that whenever you pop into my mind I get a little bit swept away, and whenever I hear your voice from across a room every precious word I have ever learned is wiped from my memory. They all give up, dead on arrival, power rendered useless.

From the moment we lock eyes to the very last kiss I feel mute. All of a sudden, this person who has dedicated their life to conveying emotion through words is at a loss for them, right when I needed them the most.

If I could, I’d climb atop every coffee shop table and shout your name; I’d grab your hand in a room crowded with our whispering friends and let you unravel my dreams, imparting every memory until you crouch with the weight of them. If I could, I’d piece together poetry and music, and I’d preach it as loud as any god would let me.

But I can’t. Not now.

So, what do I do? I learn to talk with my hands and my eyes; I learn to shout with them: with each glance or inside joke; with my fingers in your hair and the slow warmth of our bodies; with pink ears and a fluttering pulse. I have too many feelings for me to waste with words, so, most of the time, I am silent. In those moments, my words die within me. They are mute, powerless. And yet, I am screaming. I am strong, because in that blissful span of time, in one person’s company, I am happier than I have ever been alone with a million words.

About a year ago, I realized that what I was looking for wasn’t the perfect words. It was this wonder, this cacophony of nameless silence: of just sitting together, wordless but understanding, and knowing that although our moments together are fleeting and rare, they are there, adventurous nothings, and they are unexplainable, but they are perfect. Maybe that perfection wasn’t meant to be fleshed out: immortalized in words. Maybe it could lie between us, and just be.

About a year ago, I found that mere words could never constitute a whole life; they couldn’t give me a perfect silence like you could. And you know me enough to see that I love words.

But maybe I just like you a little bit more.

When are YOU going to do something?

It’s not just about the fact a person can run to be a leader of our nation and still say disgusting things about women.

It’s that there are other men who have let him. Who allowed him to spend his whole life speaking about us like we are destined to be eaten. Who thought of this attitude as honest rather than deplorable.

I’m watching you. I’m sick of boys removing themselves from the conversation because they “would never”. But you would let your friend catcall. But in the locker room or in your living room or in your frat house, you laugh when he makes the rape joke, when he talks about her like she’s inconsequential, when he removes her consent and speaks about her as if she’s a haunted house; good for a night and a story but too trapped with ghosts.

You better look down, because you’re on fire, too. You’re not free of sin because your sin was listening, an ear that excuses behavior over and over and over again until those who laugh about it begin to preform it on a personal level. Until they think they will be tolerated for criminal behavior because you tolerated them too.

The worst part is they’re right.

I want to believe in mankind. Believe he doesn’t become an rapist overnight, that only decades of business meetings or beauty contests teach him that it’s okay to be demeaning. Teach him our bodies only belong in the orbit of a boy, only mattering when we have a son.

I know how many will fold into themselves about this, hide like always in the idea you cannot change what is, that we exaggerate, that it’s not that much of a problem. That it’s not on you. Maybe it’s someone else’s problem, you won’t speak up because something in your circumstance always prevents it. That women talk about men that way sometimes, don’t they? You’ll follow rabbit holes until you come back up to sunshine without realizing you smell of nothing but gravedirt.

I’m watching you. I want to let you know you don’t get to sleep at night anymore, because none of us do. The girls you laughed about, talked about our parts as if you couldn’t tell you were slicing us into pieces. The girls who still have bruises. The women who you only see the shadow of when they stand next to their fathers or boyfriends, the two-dimensional figments of your imagination.

We are real and last night it was hard for us to breathe. All that air got snatched up by his talking. Last night we didn’t sleep. I’m not just cursing him anymore. I’m telling you the curse goes deeper. It’s every rape case you ignored, every time you waived off how offended she got by his words, every time she got uncomfortable and you did your best not to notice. I’m cursing the boy who didn’t get her back safely even though he knew about his buddy. The boy who stood in the same room as someone who spoke about her roughly and just kept drinking. I mean you.

Not all men, maybe. But all men have seen it happen.

Now the question is: when are you going to do something?

What's for dinner?

What’s for dinner?

A question that most people get excited to think about; that most people can decide on in a matter of minutes with their mouths watering, giving them something to look forward to at the end of their long work day.

A question that one person out of every ten people dreads.

One person out of every ten people feels their stomach cramp up into knots at the mere thought of having to entertain this question. One person out of every ten people feels so much pressure to make “healthy” eating choices and have the “perfect” body, and so much guilt for enjoying things like fried foods and carbohydrates that sometimes, they choose nothing as their answer to that question. Or they choose a glass of water. Or maybe a small piece of fruit.

That’s one friend out of every ten friends that you have. And you’ll never know it, because that friend will be able to hide it so easily by eating all of the same things you do when you’re together. She’s thin, but she’s not TOO thin. She’ll have pizza with you, and she’ll have chicken wings. She’ll drink beers and split your chocolate lava cake. But the whole time, she’s torturing herself in her head.

“All of this is going right to your gut. Can’t you feel those stomach rolls already?”

“You’re disgusting! Everyone can see your rolls.”

“It’s gonna take you weeks of cutting calories and exercising to make up for this!”

But people with eating disorders never eat. They’re always so thin that you can see their bones and their hair is even thinning…. Right?

No.

She’ll be plotting when she can overexercise throughout the following week to rid herself of the calories in which she just indulged. She will push herself, day after day, until she’s so close to fainting that her nose and her lips are tingling. But at least she worked off those calories. She might even go home that night and use her toothbrush to induce vomiting. Anything to lessen the feelings of guilt and diminished self-worth. Even if just a little.

Then in the days following, she might eat hardly anything at all. Just a little something here and there to keep her from feeling lightheaded. Now, after all of that, she’s confident enough to accept your invitation to hang out at the beach! Sort of.

You’ll go to the beach with her. She’ll lay there next to you, in her bikini. At first glance of her, you joke with her and tell her she’s a “skinny bitch” and that you’re “so jealous.” She laughs with you, but inside she cries. She knows that you shouldn’t be “so jealous.” You see a “skinny bitch,” but when she looks in the mirror she still sees someone who is ugly and overweight, and she can’t understand why anyone would be attracted to her. She undermines all of her internal qualities and can’t help but weigh her physical qualities and perceived flaws so much heavier. She feels pain. Deep, intense, heart wrenching pain and hopelessness, everywhere she goes, every day.

You’ll pack a full lunch, including a sandwich, maybe some potato chips on the side. She packed a couple sticks of celery and some water bottles. You make a snarky comment about what a “HUGE lunch” she has. She laughs with you again. This time she’s berating herself for even eating those celery sticks. It feels like her stomach is getting bigger and everyone on the beach can see it. Now she’s looking at all the other women around you in bikinis, and they all look so much more attractive. There aren’t enough towels on the whole beach that she could wrap herself in to make herself feel comfortable. If she could crawl out of her own skin and wash away in the ocean, she would. Why can’t she be like them? Why can’t she have that flat stomach and those muscular arms? She still has a little pouch on her belly and her arms still jiggle when she moves them, despite all of her efforts to restrict her calorie intake and exercise until she can’t anymore. Why can’t she be perfect, no matter how hard she tries?

Then she goes home after the beach, and she lays down in her bed and she cries. She cannot escape what’s in her head. She’s her own harshest judge, and she is ruthless. It has become so difficult for her to socialize with anyone, for fear that they’re also judging her body size and shape. Or for fear that they’ll continue commenting on what she eats, or call her a “skinny bitch.” Or for fear of her own thoughts that beat her down on a daily basis regarding the things that she puts on her plate and the image she sees in the mirror as a result. So she rejects invitations to social outings, anticipating the calories and the fat rolls that will come from it – because when do people socialize without food or drinks? Sometimes, it just isn’t worth the shame, the guilt that lingers afterward. She stays home, sad, lonely and angry at herself for letting her thoughts and obsessions with food and exercise consume her life. And she cries, because it feels so vain and superficial to have these thoughts. What would people think of her if they knew she obsessed over her own body like this? That these thoughts of herself occupied her mind so frequently? It’s her mind, and her choices of foods, so she should be able to control it. Right?

It’s so much deeper than that, but you won’t understand, and so she never tells you. In the upcoming months, she is diagnosed with ovarian cysts and needs to be put on birth control pills. Her back stiffens and her chest feels tight when the doctor tells her that a possible side effect is weight gain. She fights back tears as she gets the prescription filled at her local pharmacy, and she can’t help but feel like a total jerk for feeling this way. It’s such a minor side effect, and yet it had her anxiety levels at an all-time high. She almost wished she was diagnosed with a fatal illness, just so she could feel justified in being so broken and scared over it.

But eventually she gets help. It takes her years of therapy to recover, and I use the term “recover” very loosely. This type of illness is a battle she will always be fighting. She’ll be in constant recovery, even when she has learned healthy eating habits again and can (mostly) set aside her social anxieties that revolve around eating. It’s a journey of learning self-love and compassion, rationalizing perfectionist tendencies and unrealistic ideologies, and listening to what her body is telling her, which will last throughout the rest of her life. Some days will be great, and other days she might backslide a little bit. This is her struggle, and the struggle of one person out of every ten people.

So…. what’s for dinner?

Awareness.

The next time you hang out with that “skinny bitch” think twice before you make backhanded comments regarding their eating habits or the shape of their body. It’s not okay.

The struggle of writer's remorse

Writer’s block is real.

So is writer’s remorse.

It’s a lot like buyer’s remorse, which I’ve also been afflicted by. Writer’s remorse is a term that should be used much more prevalently because it’s so accurate. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve written something, only to find myself agonizing over it, even to the point of despising it right off the bat. I am my own worst critic. I often don’t afford my work the opportunity to breathe. Sometimes I find I can’t allow it. It would be a betrayal of the highest order; my poor neuroses would be ever more stricken. In the past, I’ve even set fire to my papers.

The fear of failure is astronomical. But anything I’ve managed to write, let alone post, has somehow survived a maelstrom of personal, counterintuitive recrimination and backlash. I sometimes find myself seized by anxiety from the moment I pick up a pen, or sit down to type at my keyboard. But I do it because it makes me happy, because it feeds my soul, even when my soul remains steadfastly convinced of its satisfaction while fighting off legitimate hunger pangs. I do it because it feels real and so it can remain real. I do it so I can live outside of my head, away from the crippling specter of my self-doubt.

Writer’s remorse.

The world according to Alan Ryland is riddled with writer’s remorse. But maybe I write because I believe you should know what the world according to Alan Ryland is like. Faith, perhaps. Or maybe I’m just a sucker for punishment. Either way, you learn to take these things in stride. You have to, if you want to continue writing. You have to, because you will find that adulthood is packed to the brim with all sorts of demands on your time. Somewhere along the line, you will have met—and you will always continue to meet—people who’ve stifled your voice.

Some have made a business of it. They’re the ones who told you that you weren’t good enough. They’re the ones who insisted you stop journaling and join the real world. It is lost on them that the world of the “real” is relative and shaped by experiences, that to share your own thoughts (even with yourself) is an incredibly painful and even courageous thing.

Others may not have made a business of it, but they still had an effect on you. You may not remember exactly what they said. You may not remember exactly what they did. But for the life of you, you remember exactly how they made you feel. They’re the ones who smile half-heartedly, humoring that pipe dream of yours. It is lost on them that the majority of us will not write bestsellers. It is lost on them that we write because we love it and because we have to, as an extension of ourselves.

Writer’s remorse.

It is lost on both of these groups.

But there is nothing you can do about it. Except continue to write, of course.

Continue to write in spite of the remorse. Don’t write TO spite the remorse. You’ll only stifle yourself from the deceptive comfort of a corner.

There is an art to building a balanced sentence, a talent for being aware of the measurement of the width and weight of words. I had someone tell me once that this is something subconscious, like a blacksmith understanding the iron he forges after years of working with it. Blacksmiths would never be able to shoe horses if they worried about getting every single horseshoe perfect before they took it out of the fire and put it on a horse’s hoof. Being a wordsmith should be no higher stress than that.

But you need to write. Because style is a conscious thing. Write. And write some more. Then put it away. Don’t show it to anyone. Take it out. Look at it. Take a pen to it. Mark it up. READ. Read the work of authors who inspire you. Take note of what they do. Take note of what they don’t do. Sit down. Write again. Because here’s the tough part: You’re not really writing until you’ve hacked at mechanically and started to develop the prose that you want.

It is difficult to understand this when you’re hyped and begin working furiously in a spell which leaves your coffee cold and your breakfast unmade. When all you see is how little resemblance what you produced actually shares with what you conceived in your head, how can you separate yourself from it?

Writer’s remorse.

I haven’t set fire to any of my papers in a long time. Nor have I ripped anything up, run it through the shredder. But time has taught me that there are a few things scarier than my own eccentricities. Remorse, for starters. Remorse of all kinds. 

The very flawed writing process

Feel panicked almost immediately. What will I write? I have all day, but is it enough time? Where does time go? What is time? Is time an illusion?

Check Twitter. Scroll mindlessly. See no new favorites or retweets. Feel like no one likes you or your writing and what’s the point of it all?

Check Facebook. Scroll mindlessly. Look at messages and don’t respond, because time. There is never time.

Look at email. Read every email, mark all as unread and answer like one email maybe and leave the rest for later.

Open up a blank document. Stare at it for a while. Maybe more than a while. Whatever “a while” is, double that. That’s the proper amount of time to stare and write nothing. Stare at the Blinking Cursor of Doom. Why does it taunt you?

Watch it blink. Dare that bitch to blink. (It blinked. All it fucking does is blink, blink, blink.)

Check Twitter.

Check Tumblr.

Curate the most perfect playlist that has ever been curated. Start the first song. Listen to the first song. Realize the first song is the best song and is actually the only song you want to listen to and is the sole reason you created the playlist. Repeat that song for like the next thirty-seven hours of your life until your ears bleed.

Return to: Blinking Cursor of Doom.

Maybe write a sentence. Delete that sentence. Write another sentence that you think sounds better than the sentence in your head then realize that sentence you just wrote is a terrible sentence because all you really want to say is the sentence that’s in your head but you’re scared of that sentence because that sentence is raw and it’s easier to be poised and coiffed and chipper and joyful and positive (positive!) instead of raw. Vulnerable.

Vulnerable.

Fuck.

Check Twitter.

Check email.

Check Facebook.

Check Tumblr.

Look up flights to Ireland. Look up flights to where you can see the Northern Lights. Look up hotels at the Niagara Falls. Look up hostels in Europe and plan a backpacking trip. Look up tours through Istanbul. Look up ballets in Russia.

Check the Pinterest account you haven’t really used but like maybe there’s a new pin on there or something. Realize you don’t really understand Pinterest. Go back to Tumblr.

Check to make sure you don’t have something better to do than write that raw sentence, like maybe you have a dentist appointment for a root canal followed up by a trip to the DMV at 5pm when everyone is there and then maybe after that you’ll get a late night pap smear or something more enjoyable than writing that raw sentence.

Check calendar to make sure you don’t have any appointments coming up in the next ten days or so. Just to make sure.

Make a snack.

Run out of coffee and be like, “I can’t write without coffee!”

Make coffee.

Wait for the coffee to kick in. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait till you can’t wait any longer.

Loathe yourself for a minimum of thirty minutes. Complain about mundane shit to a friend on gchat.

Check Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Pinterest. Tumblr. Livejournal. Myspace. Xanga.

Run out of shit to check.

Ok, Blinking Cursor of Doom. Let’s do this. Ready. Set. Go! Go. No, seriously, write the damn thing. Write it. WRITE IT.

Deep breath. Pity party. Another deep breath. Loathing. Pretentious torture. Get over yourself. Write the fucking thing. Write it. Just write it. You know you want to write it.

Read a book and feel inadequate about your own writing ability. Feel properly convinced you’ve never written anything good ever in your life ever. Loathe a bit more just to sort of round out the day. Question all life choices.

Let many, many hours go by. Watch the sun go down. (Update: still nothing written. Fuck that Blinking Cursor of Doom.)

Go to sleep. Lay in bed for an hour. Toss. Turn. Get a drink of water.

Aha!

Sit down at desk. Look at clock. 1am.

Write the sentence.