Sneaking in late at night

Based on the prompt: Write about someone who returns to their craft after a long hiatus

I sit down with my ugly blue marble composition notebook and one of my favorite pens, a bic atlantis. I scribble away for hours, sometimes crossing out sections before they’ve even been finished. That’s why this notebook says Draft on the cover. I told myself I'd pick up my pen when, at last, my life allowed me the time. I never imagined I’d go as far as challenging my OCD  perfectionism by forcing myself to write in a notebook instead of typing. My handwriting is not the typical girly style, according to my old coworker I have the handwriting of a “Greek boy”. I never met such a man so I have not yet been able to figure out how accurate her observation was. My job now reminds me of something I heard from an army vet, not much older than me. The army motto is “Hurry up and wait”. That’s what it is like working in crisis intervention. I’m always ready for a call to come in, whether it's an evaluation for someone who claims they’re god, or someone just looking to connect with an outpatient therapist. I’m always ready, but it’s waiting for that call to eventually come. I know if I try to pick up my notebook and pen at home, it won’t happen. So I sit at my desk in the crisis office, waiting for the phone to ring, getting paid to work on my hobby which could become another career all together. Will I ever do anything with it? Not sure yet. I’m challenging myself with this hobby. As scribbled and imperfect as it is; I’m challenging myself to allow for creativity, whatever that happens to mean. 

    I start with something basic, opening up my old google drive and pull up my short story from spring semester 2018, my creative writing elective. An old short story, suspense and thrilling horror awaits step 2, where I find a place to publish. Step 3 comes easily, but is a challenge as I push the limits of my courage to post it and get feedback from strangers in the outside world. Am I terrified? Absolutely, but why? This is one thing that in no way, shape, or form affects my career, or the rest of my life. In stark contrast to the work I've been doing for the last decade. It has no greater meaning, no purpose driving it. The writing that remains hidden in a long forgotten google drive had its purpose. This new writing has no purpose, but gives so much more to this writer. At its base, his writing is something to do in my freetime, between the chaos of psychiatric crisis evaluations. It’s a monotony, not unlike grocery shopping, or folding laundry, but not the same either. This is something new. It’s not the depressing poetry that silently screams of self hatred and suicide. It’s not the portfolio meant to inspire and challenge for the sake of a class. It’s a creation for the sake of nothing. Poems inspired out of frustration, short stories inspired by fascination. 

    It has potential to be so much and yet it doesn’t have to be anything. No expectations, no negative consequences. This is rock bottom and there’s nowhere to go but up, if I even want to. 

I’m only a few weeks into int and am already frustrated with people. My frustration manifests as a psychosomatic reaction, turning my headache into a full blown migraine  only an hour into my 10 hour shift. Compared to back then, this frustration is worse. I used to get frustrated with myself for writing crap, writers block, and so much more. I had my reasons and could form my own illogical reasoning to justify my negative feelings towards my own creations. Looking back, that may have been an inadvertent result of my internal feelings from that time in my life. At this new point I find the opposite. The more comfortable and confident I am with myself, the more I feel the criticism and put downs from other people both in my personal and professional world. So I sit and I write, to defy the negativity of other people, to defy the negative voice in my head that for years has driven my anxiety about not being good enough. The voice in my head that keeps me up at night, heart pounding, trying to control the panicked shaking that comes from the anxiety it starts within.

I try to choke down the old feelings that arise; secrets I buried years ago that are to never see the light of day again. Bury them beneath a new story idea, remind myself with a note to revisit an old book. Drown out the voices to the opening scream of perfect weapon, while trying to avoid someone interrupting. Cursing myself for not having an adapter for my headphones. I’m getting off track but that’s okay; I’m allowed to be imperfect like my pen skipping on the page as I write. My step into the professional mental health field was comparable to a hurricane, at least that was my goal. My return to writing has been more like sneaking in late at night trying not to wake anyone up. I don’t think my writing will ever be a hurricane, but maybe i’ll leave the light on the next time I come back late.