Write More Things.

I want to start writing more. This past year has been difficult for me to find motivation to do, well, much of anything, but writing especially.

I have so many ideas. So many. Too many sometimes, and I get to the point where I want to work on all of them at once and end up working on none of them.

This is a problem.

But it's not the only one. 

Next, I get this crippling doubt inside that tells me I'm not good enough. My writing is stupid and silly and worthless. The feeling expands until it tells me that I'm worthless. And sometimes, all I can do is sit until the feeling passes, because I can't even muster the strength to will it away. Take deep breaths? Think calming thoughts? Pray? No, I'd rather sit here fighting the urge to rock back and forth and press my hands over my ears and scream. I'd rather lose my focus and start shaking in class because all of the sudden, something inside me starts to believe that I'll never make it anywhere. With anything.

I have to remind myself to focus. On my breathing, on what's in front of me. On taking it one step at a time.

Which is a lot harder than it sounds sometimes.

So, I'm making a decision here and now to write something every day for the next month. (I'm also doing (attempting) nanowrimo (again), so it should be easy(-ish), right?)

But more than that, I want to blog, or journal or write a poem every day until December starts.

And hopefully, the habit will carry itself over.

And even if it's not good or profound, at least it will be something. And I can be proud of that.

 

(Another picture from this weekend, because tall trees in an old growth forest in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan are beautiful. Especially when the late afternoon sun hits them just right.)

Walking

This has been one of the hardest poems for me to write to date. I went on a writing retreat this past weekend, and at the end of our time there, we had to share something we'd written. I tried for almost two days straight to get this poem to come together, and it simply wasn't working. For being on a writing retreat, I think I wrote less than I ever have in that amount of time, considering I set out conciously to write. It still doesn't feel completely finished, but here is a poem about walking. Enjoy.

I tried to write a poem about walking:

How my mother used to tell me not to scuff my feet;

How my sister walks so firmly that

I learned to walk lightly instead;

How my father has long legs and doesn’t mind being almost late;

How I have short legs and learn to

Walk fast because I’d rather be too early;

[I tried to write a poem about walking]

But my pen couldn’t translate

The memories from my mind

I tried to write a poem about walking:

The way I never notice the earth moving beneath my feet,

An act too undemanding and commonplace

To be celebrated regularly, even by recognition;

An act so purely physical

It doesn’t expect a description;

An act so simple, it never asks for an audience

[I tried to write a poem about walking]

But the more I walked,

The less I thought about walking

I tried to write a poem about walking:

Remembering places I have gone

Experiences I’ve been allowed,

All because I can walk.

My mind filled with memories of conversations

Walking has been a way to experience:

Traveling (across cities and countries)

Growing friendships, (new and old)

[I tried to write a poem about walking]

And I forgot again to be grateful

That I have able feet

I tried to write a poem about walking.

And it didn’t turn out.

And it didn’t turn out.

And it didn’t. Turn. Out.

So I wrote about writing about walking,

And it turns out,

I wrote a poem about walking anyway. 

~C.R. Sutton

Friends

I am bad at communication.

Well, verbal communication, anyway. Perhaps written communication too, I'll leave that decision up to you. When it come to verbal, however, I know I keep getting it wrong.

I find it difficult to express myself sometime, to put into words the thoughts and feelings I have. Often time that means I'm not able to say everything I mean in the way I want too, maybe even leaving out important bits because I try to improvise.

Improvising and me do not go together well.

I think this is why I prefer writing, unless I really know the person. With writing, I can edit. I can go back and find the words I really want to use, words that truly express how I'm feeling. I can tweak and fiddle the words until it sound just right. With speech, I bumble over my words, and when I try to go back and fix it, I end up sounding silly and stupid. Which brings me to my next point.

I'm bad at relationships. Friendships, mainly, as I've never had any other kind. I had a discussion with a new acquaintance (someone I hope can still be a friend) recently, and failed to say what I truly meant and felt.

Later, I journaled about it, and found I had a much better way to say what I wanted.

The discussion, ironically, was about friendship. I stated that I don't have or even need tons of friends because I find it hard to manage them all (and here, I really mean "close friends", but that also wasn't specified). I best connect with people emotionally, and once I get to a certain point of investment, I don't want to let that friendship go. However, in that conversation, I made it sound like I would rather not be friends with someone if I know we aren't going to be friends "literally forever".

What I really meant, though, is that it's hard for me to let frendships go, and I tend to hang onto them long after they are over, even if that's not healthy for me.

But I'm learning that sometimes, you are meant to be friends with someone for only a season of life. That doesn't mean you shouldn't be friends at all, though. That means you have to learn to enjoy that time, connect during that time, and accept that you cant be friends with everyone for the rest of your life. it would be much too emotionally exhausting, and simply wouldn't work.

I'm still working on this. It's still hard for me to make friends because I know that I can't keep all of them. But that doesn't mean I don't want them. I do.

So, if you want to connect with me emotionally, for a month, a year, or a lifetime, please don't hesitate. I'll be forever grateful you came into my life, for as little or long as you did.

(Just remember that I'm awkward and don't talk a lot at first. I want to connect with you. I'm just bad a communication. I'm trying, but I just need you to meet me halfway.)

Thanks for reading! Leave your comments below, I'd love to hear from you! :)

Becoming Grown Up: (or, Adventures in Shopping)

They say that this is part of adulthood:

Learning to go to the store

All by yourself.

Walking 6 blocks and taking

2 trains

surrounded by people

but still all alone.

Somehow this is an accomplishment.

Did they forget to mention

the crippling fear in the

pit of my stomach that makes

me feel sick,

my hands shaking as I ask the cashier

to “ring this item up separate, please,

I’d like to pay for it

in cash?”

I have to remind myself

To breathe

calmly, deeply

Walk down the aisles slowly,

Don’t worry,

If you are careful

you won’t run into her, so

just take your time.

No one said that my hands wouldn’t

stop shaking for 2 hours

afterwards,

Or that a mug of tea

wouldn’t calm the bile in my

stomach

or quench the dryness that covers

the back of my throat

No one said that I’d want to lie on my bed

for the rest of the night,

unable to decide

what book to

read,

Or if I even want to read at all

since my head is still pounding

and I can’t think straight.

Still, I guess, somehow,

I am one step closer to living

on my own,

“all grown up”.

But isn’t the best thing you can do

when you are scared

is to ask for (just a little)

help?

~C.R. Sutton

home

I want home.

I want you on the bus next to me
riding home in the sunset
laughing
full of leftover adrenaline
and Gatorade
Those were the moments
I felt whole.

I want home.

I want the moment you saw us
after we arrived in Spain
running up
to give out hugs and smiles
and happiness
Those were the moments
I felt loved.

I want home.

Lying on the floor watching TV
Vacation in Australia, summer
in January
Surrounded by friends
and donuts
Those were the moments
I belonged

I want home.

Because home is no longer a place
but rather a feeling I get
when I'm safely surrounded
by people I love.
When time has no meaning
Tomorrow can wait.
Now is the only thing that matters.

I want home
I want the moment I meet you
or the moment I know 
That You
are the only thing
I'll ever need
I'll only have to look at you
to be there.

I want home.

~C.R. Sutton

Worse.

I used to know, hours in advance. Sometimes as early as morning when I woke up. I knew it was going to be a bad day, that later that night I would have a panic attack. I knew that I could hold it of (usually) until I was able to curl up on my bed and let all the stress go. I used to be able to control it, even predict it by the way it hit every two weeks, almost on the dot.

Now, it happens in class. My day can be going perfectly fine and all of the sudden I can't breathe. It takes all of my focus and concentration to not make a scene, to repress it and not fall on the floor in a tiny ball, crying. I have to force myself to breathe slowly and deeply. I cannot think about the lesson or the class or the people around me.

Now, it happens at the end of a perfectly good day. I'm lying in bed, or sitting at my computer in the evening and the doom crashes over me. A thought enters my head, and I'm gone. Dread fills my being, all of the feelings come back at once. I feel fine one minute, and the next I want to scream or cry or lie perfectly still doing nothing for hours, feeling worthless and useless and empty.

The worst part about it is that I don't know if anything is really wrong. I've taken the online self tests with low results for an actual problem. I've made it through the days, the weeks, the years, and managed to keep my grades up and not want to kill myself and interact with friends on a normal level. But something doesn't feel right.

Moments like these, everything feels wrong. Everything feels worse. And I don't know why.

It's too hard to explain, too hard to put into words. It doesn't feel like enough to be a real problem.

What if it is?

What if it's not?

And most of all, what do I do?

October's Song

If every day were like this,
I wouldn't have to be afraid
The demons would not haunt my skin
The dark would stay away.

October's gentle music sways
Bells rustle in the trees
"Come," they call "and sing with us"
There are stories in the leaves.

And time stands still a moment
As Heaven passes through
This season is not one of death
But a promise to renew.

~C. R. Sutton              

   

terrore impetum

description of a panic attack:

little lights inside my head

flickering

pounding sounds

breathe in. breathe out.

don’t breathe.

heartbeat. blood beneath skin.

ears strumming with chords

nonsense chords.

breathe in. hold.

thoughts, swirl.

whirlpool round.

And round and round

Androundandroundandround

lights go out

pain.

is my heart still beating?

is it still inside my chest?

pain. no pain.

empty.

breathe out.

breathe in

breathe out and in and out

and inoutinoutinoutin.

hold.

silent scream

gasp for air.

i can’t be drowning

if there is no water to be found.

right?

wrong.

and thoughts and thoughts and

THOUGHTS

be quiet! Shut up!

you don’t know me

I am you.

I am in you.

This is you.

GO AWAY

pressure on chest.

heart sucked dry.

no more blood.

no more breath.

blink.

tears.

Done.

~C.R. Sutton                                                            

Golden Dreams

She knits sweaters in the dark

Because her fingers

Have memorized the movement,

And her eyes are tired.

I fall asleep to the sound

Of yarn on metal

Weaving a pattern of gold,

Through my starlit dreams.

C.R. Sutton