grrrls dont cry

This semester was cathartic. I shed a layer of skin. As the semester comes to a close the most raw, ugly and tortured parts of myself are exposed. i traveled the world, i loved as deeply as i could and bled out in the process. I would be pathetic if I had never surrendered myself to writing. However, I still pity myself because after all, I am a writer. But after this semester, I no longer carry the same shame I once did when saying that sentence aloud. I hated myself for confiding in the pages of my journal, rather than in my mother- who loved me before I was even born. For years I’ve tried to dismiss my recluse nature, and force myself to be someone I thought I should be. I resented the part of me that falls in love too easily, or values poetry over all else. Ever since I was a child, I’ve damned myself because I thought I was strange. All these years I thought I was weak, but I am just a poet. My heart and artistry doesn’t make me weak- if anything I have learned I am brave for devoting myself to creation. Every time I lose faith or break my own heart, I just write. Writing is like holy water to me, it cleanses my soul. Writing makes me believe Heaven is real and that I am good enough to get in. This class aided me in preserving my sorrow, as well as my joy. I wrote for myself, and wrote with pure intention so that every ache I felt became tangible through language. I developed my skills of looking at an idea from a perspective other than my own, when studying ‘Two Ways of Seeing a River’ by Mark Twain. I began to explore the idea that I am not wise enough to deem anyone or anything ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’. That assignment allowed me to exercise the idea that some things just are. It allowed me to get more comfortable with the concept of change, which is something that I adamantly resisted for so long. At times, I am still uncomfortable with change and uncertainty, but the skills I have strengthened in this class have become tools I use to mend the weariness I feel towards life. I learned how to utilize writing as a tool to embrace acceptance. This class made me feel my emotions at a level deeper than I would have allowed myself to. It gave me a space to be vulnerable and embrace my humanity. This class opened my heart to dream. I am much braver than I was in January. 

I have mastered the art of mystique. My friends and family mistake me for an open book, but I am careful with what I share. My closet has stacks of full journals that go to my waist, my hard drive is out of storage, and my trash can is overflowing with crumpled up pieces of paper that were once drafts for my poetry. Everything I’ve ever touched has become an archive of my artistry. My shame triumphed over my desire for recognition, so I never share much of my writings. I carry the fear of people not liking my words, but I am almost more afraid that they will. I feel like an imposter when I am successful- as if the recognition is meant for a different version of myself. I’m afraid of being seen in such a vulnerable light so I keep my art in my room- where they are safe. I share my work at poetry slams, or with my best friend after a few glasses of wine, or on my blog; but that is much easier because I know my audience is people that are like me. I had anxiety about sharing my essay’s with a tutor, because I didn’t know who was at the receiving end. I didn’t know if they would relate to my words, or dismiss them. I am only just now allowing myself to claim the title of Writer or Poet. At this point in my writing journey, I don’t feel confident enough in my own voice for my writing to be held in high regard. Yet, at the same time I feel like a starry-eyed child, my dreams of being a writer are fragile. I was pleasantly surprised by the feedback I received. One tutor wrote to me, “The images are interesting, but I am certain that your self-image is far more complex than you acknowledge”. I felt seen, I have always felt very complicated and I’ve been desperate to be understood through my writing. I called back to the 10 Writing Concepts, specifically “Revision is an essential part of writing”. I was so uncomfortable with the idea of criticism because I mistook it for something that holds malintent. However, the tutors’ comments made me realize I can go even deeper, and that there are treacherous areas of my self image that I have not fully explored. I am very grateful for this space to be criticized. I feel more comfortable with the idea of imperfection. After reflecting on my feedback, it became clear to me that I must be more gentle with myself. I am dancing with the idea that I am worthy of artistic appreciation.

“Madison, never give up, none of us is as free nor as constrained as we imagine.  Write your way out of your darkness, every day. I do. Life takes practice.”

“Madison, keep reading and keep writing!” 

“You write in an evocative style that is well-suited for narrative storytelling.”

“I can say with confidence that your writing is strong, and that you have a talent for painting lush images as well as an insight into human nature that comes through in your work.”

“The images are interesting, but I am certain that your self-image is far more complex than you acknowledge.”

THANK YOU VIRGINIA AND KEVIN AT PC WRITING CENTER FOR THE KIND WORDS 🙂

The concept of this essay came from meditation. When I closed my eyes, I saw the sun peaking between my grandfather’s tree. I decided to explore my daydream at my grandparents old house and let my thoughts roam free. I reflected on the people I’ve loved and places I’ve been. I feel like I am in a constant stage of change, and as soon as I am able to stand steadily on two feet, the rug is pulled out from under me. I sit with myself in silence sometimes to feel grounded in the midst of chaos. Here, in this state of limbo, is where I am able to think without judgement. There was one thought that wouldn’t rest; you can never truly know someone. I thought about how the grandfather that I loved is a different version of the same man that the one my mother loved. As I got older, I learned about my grandfather’s temper and how his children were afraid of him. He was gentle with me. He was everything a grandfather should be. I felt guilty for loving a version of him that even my mother never knew. I sat with myself and wondered if he was ‘good’, or ‘bad’ , or a secret third thing I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I was afraid I couldn’t trust my own memory and that maybe he was this confused angry old man who couldn’t feel love the same way that I can. But who am I to play God, or Santa Clause? I still can’t help but look at pictures differently, or pity my mother for never experiencing a soft father. This piece is an attempt to accept that love and people change. I am still learning to embrace the idea that two truths can coexist.

This piece began the first time I saw ‘Portrait of an Artist’ by Vincent Van Gogh last year in Paris. I’ve had an ache in my heart since that day. The painting felt alive to me. I had seen it online so many times before, but it had a whole new meaning to me when I saw the brush strokes and colors in the flesh. I have never been the same after that day, and I understand now so much more can be said with art than words. I saw others take pictures smiling in front of it or passing it without a second look- and it broke my heart. The painting was one of his last before his suicide, and he described it in a letter to his brother how he had never felt so depressed. It is clear in his eyes, and the blues of the painting, that this man was hardly alive. I felt so much grief in front of this painting because he will be remembered for the lowest moment of his life. I recalled this painting while brainstorming the thesis of this essay- that sometimes language is not enough. As a writer, I feel devoted and merciful towards language. I feel damned by God with this need to create. Some days it is a punishment, and others it is a blessing. At times, there is no word to explain what I feel. I’ve begun to explore different mediums as my resentment toward language has become more prevalent. I am still unsure where my relationship with language stands, but I have learned for certain that I cannot live without the freedom to create.