Like the daddy who bore me, I’m a wallower. I tend to wallow.
I whinge worse than our backdoor hinge, which whines so loudly it doubles as my blind dog’s GPS. (Silla’s so intent on gobbling cat poop that she often loses track of herself in the yard.) Repeatedly opening and closing that door usually does the trick.
My emotions become me. There’s no sleeve to rest my heart upon; my transparent skin reveals all for anyone brave enough to look. Few do, and I don’t blame them. It’s intense. I’m intense, even for me—that’s why I frequently escape myself, through reading, working on my fantasy epic, or by smoking the devil’s lettuce—anything to relax the clenched[1] fist that is my mind.
Most days, I’d rather be anywhere else than inside my own head. I can easily imagine how a person like that could transmute alcohol into a lifesaving elixir necessary for his or her survival. I wonder if that’s how Dad viewed his drinking—as his only means of escape from himself—and the idea of giving that up was too much for him to bear. That makes me sad, naturally, but it also gives me a way to understand his addiction. If only I could ask him.
For me, marijuana has been a marvel—something downright miraculous.
Weed prevents me from becoming like my daddy. Sometimes I wonder if I might be different now if I’d partied more in high school, or if I drank more hard liquor my freshman year of college (which would be a lot, as I drank my fair share). But I always had Dad’s struggles in mind, even back in high school, so I was careful to never cross that line—save for a couple of close calls. When I did toe that line, it was, you guessed it, due to emotional setbacks I was unequipped to handle. But once I started smoking pot regularly, I stopped drinking as much. I was officially a social drinker, thank the gods. (In the time since, I’ve only returned to drinking more dangerously for a period of a few months after my daddy died, which I talk about briefly in this post.)
Having weed to dull my overactive thoughts prevented me from using the more dangerous substance to excess, but it’s not a cure-all. Lately, I’ve realized how I unwind at night is only one piece of the keep-Kinsey-sane puzzle. The ways in which I escaped myself as a kid, through reading and writing—or, more simply, by using my imagination—is just as vital now as it was back then. The fantasy epic I shelved to focus solely on telling my daddy’s story left a hole within me; essentially, I shelved a part of myself along with it. I thought it was the act of writing that kept me sane, but it turns out what I choose to write about also matters. I feel dumb for not realizing it sooner, but now that I have, it’s been hard to ignore the siren’s call luring me back to my fantastical world.
The longer I go without that chunk of me, the more adrift I feel, regardless of how great my writing for the memoir goes that day.
My mood and self-worth[2] are directly linked to my writing, so this mismatch was confusing. How could I be miserable when the writing was going so great? At first, I chalked it up to the memoir’s heavy subject matter. But the truth is, giving up my fantasy epic cold turkey was a mistake. I thought I could put it on hold, no problem, but I underestimated how much I needed that creative escape. I’ve been hiding in my imagination since I could hold a crayon, and I was crazy to think I could go without it for this long.
I still believe Dad’s story is the most important thing I’ll ever write. I’m not giving up on it—I just need balance. On tough days, I’ll let[3] myself return to my passion project. It’s not a betrayal; it’s self-preservation. My head wants to give my heart some grace, knowing how my soul rails against these bones. But my heart doesn’t want to hear it. Admitting all of this feels like I’m letting Dad down, or worse, letting myself and my readers[4] down. But forcing myself to dwell on the past 24/7 isn’t sustainable. My soul is threadbare. I owe it to myself—and to Dad’s story—to stay whole.
For those I may have disappointed, I’m sorry. I’ll keep moving forward, one page at a time.
[1] You can thank Mary Karr for this visual. I was inspired by her line, “unclench your mind’s claws,” found on page 31 of The Art of Memoir, my writing bible.
[2] 10/10 would not recommend.
[3] Doing this should also solve my photo editing addiction, which barely ticks the box as a “creative endeavor,” anyway. (While editing a photo into oblivion in the wee hours of the morning, I was reminded of all the hours I spent painting late into the night; my “art” was always terrible, but I loved the creativity of it, which I wasn’t getting at my day job.) For whatever reason, I always need a creative project to work on, no matter what’s going on in my life.
[4] The overwhelming guilt I feel for writing this post, when I originally said I would “happily” put my fantasy epic on hiatus, spears me. I hope I haven’t upset anyone, and you all understand where I’m coming from.
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Another great submission – I continue to marvel at your writing, honesty and clarity.
Good for you taking breaks – temporary, permanent or combo – to focus on other writing projects – or just for sips of air, if needed.
I will read anything you write!
Bless you for saying so, Ms. Darlene! If this comment isn’t from you but from someone else, apologies, and thanks to you, stranger, for the kind words. (I saw you had logged in to like my post, which made a ding on my phone, giving me a lovely dose of serotonin. I’ll ride it through lunch and keep clacking away at the keys with a smile on my face!)
Yes – it was me (Darlene). Not entirely sure what to do be “seen”. I don’t yearn to be anonymous – but so be it. As long as you know for certain that your writing is important and reaching people, I don’t care!
And I mean it: keep me hooked in to whatever else you are writing!
A well-written and introspective piece, Kinsey. If truth be known, most of us have addictions, although if the behavior is seen as positive they are described as perseverance, determination, or adrenalin rushes. However if they are self-destructive they are dismissed as “Addictions”. Truth is that these addictive behaviors allow us to cope and stay on track and get on with life. I enjoy your writings and your reflections on what makes Kinsey tick. Not just the substance but the process. XO Papa
Thank you, Papa. I write these posts as a way to help me work out my mind’s troubles, to sort through my muddled thoughts, as I have so many at once that it’s hard to discern what I’m truly thinking. Writing brings me clarity.
I just read your last post Kinsey. A lot of healthy introspection. You are a very good writer and you feelings be they joyful or sorrowful come through loud and clear in your writing. It takes a gifted writer to bring the reader fully into the author’s journey. I encourage you to expand your topics, and it appears you will be soon. I hope your writing about your father will help you bring closure to a sad chapter. I love you and will miss you this Christmas. Love, Papa
Thank you, Papa. I’d like to think so. It’s exhibitionist, I’ll admit, but necessarily so. That’s what is helping me come out of my shell and accept who I am bit-by-bit. The more I write, the more I discover.