It’s official, I am trapped. Inside my head. The wall is tall and it is unwavering. The age-old writers block has gripped me. The problem here is, the block is self-induced. The writing I have done these past six months have been few dabbles, quick notes, but a lot of staring at the screen and lots of thinking.
My now 5 year old daughter, late last year, was newly diagnosed as a Type 1 Diabetic with a wonderfully (sarcasm here) addition of having Celiac Disease as well. It has seemed my little girl’s body has turned into a police state, where her immune system has a “take no prisoners” attitude. It sucks. And if you don’t know about Type 1 Diabetes, or think it’s the ever popular Type 2, please educate yourself and know the difference. Briefly, Type 1 is not a result of diet and exercise, it is an autoimmune disease where her immune system has seen cells of the pancreas as the enemy and seeks to destroy it. There is no cure. My daughter is coming to grips with things that no 4-5 year old should try to understand. Her life should be about playing and imagination. But now that has been sprinkled with a good old dose of “how to keep myself alive” with sharing in the art of carbohydrate counting, managing blood sugar, insulin dosing, when will a juice box save her life. Yeah, so you see, the last 6 months have been a little mentally clouding.
The range of emotion and thoughts would be, under normal circumstances, great fodder to pull inspiration from. Yet, I am frozen with words. I somehow cannot tap into that to write. I cannot seem to find the words suitable to explain the sorrow I feel for my daughter. I cannot frame a poem around the anger I have towards Type 1 diabetes and how it has consumed every thought and worry of every moment of my daughter’s life. I cannot use for inspiration the exhaustion of making sure her blood sugar numbers are in range and the worry of nighttime lows, where it seems like I have a newborn in the house again. Waking up multiple times at night. Force feeding my groggy daughter juice or a banana to ensure that her body does not fall into the dangerous state of low blood sugar seizures and coma. That feeling, that worry, that stress, I cannot seem to put into an emotional poem nor can’t I seem to use it for fuel in my novel.
I am also at a loss of how to perfectly describe in poem or prose the sheer strength and endurance that my extremely young daughter has shown. She has only been on this earth for four years before life decided to throw her a curve ball. And instead of shrinking away, she tackled it head on like a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. She has taken the bull by the horns in a way that astounds me and makes me look at her with enjoyment and such a strong sense of love and admiration. I made her (with the help of my husband of course). I carried this strength in my body for 9 months. I gave birth to her (with the help of some skilled doctors performing a C-section). I nursed her and cared for this tiny human. And her will and intelligence is beyond anyone that I have ever met. Her sense of humor is massively encouraging. Her smile is contagious. Inside her, I swear, lives the soul of a woman that has lived for millennia and who carries the secrets of the universe. My daughter has embraced life even when life has been a huge asshole to her. How am I supposed to put those feelings into a poem?! I don’t even think it’s possible to convey those types of deep seeded emotions. How can I share that with others? How do I show and tell readers this through the craft of poetry and prose?
I can’t. It’s too personal. No one would be able to relate unless one has lived it. And then only those with similar, powerful emotions would be able to understand. But it’s not an understanding through words. It’s a nod. A hug. A pat on the back. A smile. A sharing of an unspoken bond.
So alas, I have broken out the writing books again. Begun to loose myself in a fantasy novel (big thanks to Brian Sanderson for the distraction). Instead of writing, I’ve begun revising the 400+ pages of my novel. I’ve just sat quietly trying to find some semblance of worldly inspiration to pull from. Maybe just writing this, outside of food logs, is enough to start chiseling away the formidable wall that has been growing in front of me. Please send me good karma as I struggle against the grain. Bear with me loyal readers as I bumble along the rocky path to reclaim myself through words.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” – Maya Angelou