soopastryheart

I am not a very good sleeper. Actually, no, that’s wrong: I’m an excellent sleeper; when I am asleep, no earthquake, hurricane, or rock concert could wake me (true story, I once fell asleep in the corner of a nightclub in Canada). The problem is, I have extreme difficulty falling asleep. I will stay awake for hours, lying there in bed while Boyfriend blissfully floats away to dreamland.

Most nights I sleep with headphones in, partially to dull Boyfriend’s raucous snoring, but mostly to shuffle through new music that Pandora and Spotify has for me. I’ve discovered some of my favorite artists and bands this way, at 3am, in the midst of trying to find slumber. And one of the benefits of semi-insomnia in bed are the lack of distractions that allow you to focus on whatever it is that you want. In my case, the lyrics that flow out of my headphones become the most intriguing narration, some silly, while some, acutely revealing. And while I perilously claw my way to construct words to accurately describe a feeling/thought/revelation, some lyrics will do so for me, in the most effortless and poetic ways.

So the other night, in the second hour of my usual bedtime routine of waiting around for drowsiness to hit, Barcelona’s “Please Don’t Go” came on. It’s a song I’ve heard numerous times before, but for one reason or another, my brain zeroed in on the lyrics. You know those scenes in movies where a mathematical genius becomes so engrossed in the problem that the equations on his white board come alive? He becomes wrapped in a vortex of mathematical expressions until suddenly the answer becomes undoubtedly clear. Well, I guess that’s what happened to me, but instead of numbers, the lyrics to “Please Don’t Go” were zooming in and out of my line of sight, leaving me in a whiplash of words that I never really paid attention to.

And suddenly, I found my face losing all control, as it contorted into what can only be described as a “scrunch,” the precursory expression your face makes just milliseconds before losing your shit.

In that moment, at 3am, surrounded by the darkness of the bedroom, and with the ambient sounds of Boyfriend’s muzzled snores, I broke down in uncontrollable, legitimately ugly sobs. I was so confused as to why this was happening, that I tried my hardest to muffle myself, but that only caused my chest to stammer and tighten with each restraint. And because I didn’t want to wake Boyfriend and have him privy to me having a random fucking meltdown, I flew out of bed, and ran to the bathroom, where I cried for a solid minute or two. I then splashed some cold water on my face and went back to bed, where I spent the rest of the night/morning completely mystified as to what triggered this outburst.

Some time the next morning, I looked up the official lyrics to the song, hoping it could help decode why it affected me so. It’s a beautiful melody, but it’s one that describes the love and desperation that comes with heartbreak, written for/about a particular lover. This couldn’t possibly apply to me, because as saccharine as it may sound, Boyfriend and I are truly, madly, deeply in love. And while our relationship is nowhere near the spectrum of perfect, there’s absolutely no reason for the song and its lyrics to have punched me like it had.

The lyrics struck a nerve, and it affected my mood for several days thereafter. I grieved the way one would after a devastating breakup, without really understanding why. Maybe there were no reasons; maybe I had finally unraveled, and this was the official invitation to looney town. But then more songs started to have the same effect. I wasn’t breaking down in tears with each song, but more and more started to tug at my insides, like a petulant child trying to remind me of something urgent.

As I tried to investigate what was going on with my emotional balance, I realized that my lyrical attentiveness gravitated to those songs of loss and heartbreak, especially those where the singer expressed regret, pleading with the object of his/her affection to not go/come back. If this was my subconsciousness trying to tell me something, what the fuck was it? What was I trying so desperately not to lose? What was I trying to get back?

There’s a folder on my desktop labeled “Works in Progress” that I’ve had for the better part of 15 years. It’s a folder that’s been passed on from computer to computer, and it’s one that carries hundreds of drafts. In years past, I’ve visited this folder frequently, occasionally opening some random files with every intention of deleting, but after a few paragraphs, I deem them to still have potential, so I keep them. This past year, that folder began collecting virtual dust from abandonment.

Frustration led to discouragement, which quickly turned me complacent with being stuck. And instead of sticking it out and trying to make it work, I simply gave up. I began to resent the entire process: thinking of ideas, the roughest of drafts, even reading. Somewhere along the way, I started to tell myself that I wasn’t the problem; I didn’t leave writing, writing left me. And like the worst break ups, I couldn’t remember any of the good times, and instead, could only think of the ways writing betrayed me. And ultimately, it destroyed my self-esteem and ability to love (write) again. I have felt tremendously empty, an incomplete version of the person I used to be. I’ve been floundering for some time now, lost and insecure. And though I’ve attempted many times to find distractions to fill this inexplicable void, I’ve only found fleeting relief. Not writing effectively broke my heart and I never recovered.

And that’s where I am now. I know why I’ve been unhappy, why I’ve felt unfulfilled. I know why I stopped daydreaming, why I stopped reading books, and why I lose my shit to love songs in the middle of the night. I’ve become a real-life Adele music video.

I’m taking things slow. There’s a lot of trust to rebuild, and a lot of self-loathing to scare off. Things might be rough for a while; there will be prolonged absences, and more fits of “this time it’s REALLY OVER.” There will be terribly played-out cliches and metaphors (good lord there’s so many in this post alone). There will be viciously long and barely coherent rants of nothing of great significance or purpose. There will be awkward transitions between paragraphs, repeated and recycled themes and ideas. There will be more fights, definitely more tears, and the occasional bouts of flagrant wailing. There will be a hell of a lot more of bad writing before the good ones appear. But we belong together. If these past few couple of years have taught me anything at all, it’s that I can’t be me without it. Since the longest I can remember, all I’ve wanted to do is share my stories. Your stories. Your mom’s stories. And for fuck’s sake, writing is super hard. It makes me angry and it makes me cry. It makes me hate so much of myself, but it’s the only thing that I’ve ever had that’s ever truly been mine. And I’ve never been happier than when I was doing it. I don’t know how to be me without my words.

And I haven’t run out of them quite yet.

*Title lyric from “Please Don’t Go” by Barcelona