On Writing: The Stream-of-Consciousness, Unconventional Version in Blog Form

I’ve been writing my whole life. I remember writing in Notepad on my grandma’s desktop computer when I was in elementary school. I wrote about secret agent teenagers and families who owned old-timey general stores filled with cinnamon hard candies, wind-up toys, and cartons of milk. I was the kid in high school who wanted to edit everyone’s essays and actually got excited about (some) writing assignments. I love writing so much that I ended up going to college to study creative writing.

So, why is it that I hardly ever write for fun anymore? Every day, I think about how I want to go home from work, sit down on my bed, and write a blog or story. I even think up entire pages in my head — playing out each scene of what I’m writing, picturing myself writing it, and wondering how readers will react to it. When I struggle with my anxiety disorder, I think about how writing down my feelings may help me sort them out. I wonder whether others have similar experiences with anxiety and ask myself if writing about mine and sharing them would help others cope and feel less alone.

But, when (if) I actually sit down to write, I have a hard time. This is either because I’m exhausted from writing a long speech in my head and can’t force myself to actually type it, or because I’ve thought of so much that I can’t remember everything I wanted to say.

I know I’m not alone in this. I have read and seen and know many writers who procrastinate or have writer’s block, so I need to stop pitying myself and wondering why I was the only writer cursed with the inability to write anything down. I’m sure Stephen King has days where he doesn’t want to write, but allegedly, as he says in On Writing that he forces himself to write a certain number of pages or for a certain number of hours every day. I always picture him locking himself in a dusty room with scuffed up wooden floors, an old kidney-shaped table, and a typewriter until he finishes a novel. I don’t know how many times I’ve pictured Stephen King writing like this…but it is astronomically more times than someone should if they are trying not to be weird or inaccurate. I wonder if he ever scares himself with his writing. Do you think he gets into bed after a long, dusty day in his office and says to his wife, “Tabby…I wrote the scariest shit today and I don’t think I can sleep tonight!” I hope so because that’s what I would do.

This is, in fact, a blog I wrote in my head and attempted to recollect on the page…it is, of course, an incomplete and choppy recollection. I also had something about not wanting to write because then I have to read and edit my own work and read it again and edit it and so on and that is just TOO MUCH, and something else about the horrifying coleslaw I made earlier…

In regards to writing about my anxiety, sometimes opening up like that even makes me anxious, so let’s start small. I have this irrational fear that there is going to be a tarantula under the toilet seat every time I sit down. I picture it sticking one hairy leg out and poking me in the butt. I told my boyfriend and he said that could definitely happen and that I should start checking — thanks, Shad. I’m even worried that by writing this down, now someone will sneak into my house and plant a spider in my toilet…so just don’t do that, okay? Let’s just not and say we didn’t. Thanks.

Anyway, I guess we can count this as a blog. At least I wrote something, right?

 

The Clubhouse Blog

I.

I creak open the door labeled “The Red Nose Tavern.” A metallic man with a red painted nose is the doorkeeper, but he never questions my entry. I walk past the work table, lined with plastic drawer sets — the many-sized compartments are filled with screws, bolts, nails, hooks, and other metal shrapnel for creating.

I turn the small corner to find the ladder that leads up to my clubhouse. Grandma is waiting for me and she already has the pink plastic teacups and fresh-baked foam cookies set out on a wooden footstool. I was almost late for tea!

I notice that she’s hung up a drawing of someone I don’t know on the walls. It appears to be some giant-headed woman with a tennis racket and ball. She’s tossing the ball up and looking at it in a way that seems like she might bite it with her giant teeth.

After tea, grandma and I color and paint. She likes to add sketches of squirrels into my discarded coloring pages. I’m always impressed by her ability to draw — I wonder why she isn’t featured in the art museum where she takes me every week. I love her squirrels. Sometimes they wear letter jackets.

She also paints fruit on the “kitchen” wall. The piece of plywood is now adorned with oranges, pears, and apples. I pretend they are real fruits on a shelf or recipes for smoothies I create in a wooden stove.

II.

The plastic draws are now sticking out at different angles. The metal things are rusted. The shed is rundown and covered in layers of dust. A Harley Davidson charm hanging from a chain is barely recognizable from corrosion. The way to the attic is blocked by old brooms and rakes. I consider ascending, but the ladder rungs are now thick with spiderwebs.

My mom says, “There are probably raccoons up there.” I’m sure they’ve ransacked my supply of painted fruit, Disney princess teacups, and unidentified caricatures. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return to my clubhouse. I’ve been excommunicated and frightened away by nature. Maybe I can return to see what remains of my toys — what hasn’t been chewed, rotted, or stolen to decorate a nest.

P.S. I tried to go back and get pictures for this blog, but Grandma closed the shed doors because there’s a family of raccoons living inside. She feeds them daily. Bexley’s wild animals are single-handedly sustained by my grandma’s Chinese leftovers and cat food. My childhood is home to a family of raccoons. My memories are covered in spiders and trash pandas.

Happy IBS Awareness Month, Everyone!

I bought flushable wipes while at the store with my mom the other day, and she said, “You better hide those from your boyfriend.” And I was like, “What? Why?” “Because some things just need to be kept a secret, Abby.” “Are you kidding? If Shad wasn’t well-aware and okay with my intestines, we would have a serious problem. And what if he wants to share my butt wipes and I’m hiding them? That wouldn’t be very nice.” My mom didn’t respond.

Happy IBS Awareness Month, everyone! This is a little bit about how I deal with Irritable Bowel Syndrome every day. While I often have diarrhea, some people also have IBS with constipation and most IBS includes bouts of both.

I wish no one had a problem with diarrhea. I’ve been dealing with stomach issues since fifth grade, so I’m used to it. I’m used to scouting out the nearest bathrooms anywhere I go in case of emergencies. I laugh at poop jokes because they describe my everyday life. But, I don’t think the movie Bridesmaids is funny because the whole pooping in the sink and street scene just hits a little too close to home for me.

Doctors make me feel like I’m constantly crying wolf because I don’t frequently have blood in my stool—the keyword is “frequently” because I have done tests where I have to put a pad in the toilet water and send it in to a lab to test for blood—and one was positive…but it was only a little bit…so it’s fine. Apparently, it’s just “typical IBS” to not be able to eat anything without feeling gassy, having diarrhea, or having such bad stomach pain that you vomit and pass out. That’s “typical.”

“It feels like tiny elves are mining in my intestines,” I said to my boyfriend. “Elves?” “Yes, elves. Or maybe dwarves like Snow White…Either way, there are pickaxes in there.” He scrunched his face up in confusion and concern and patted my belly.

I always bring my phone into the bathroom with me—not necessarily because I need entertainment, but mostly in case there’s an emergency and I need someone to call an ambulance. Sometimes I just sit there and pray the pain goes away. And then, I’m supposed to hide my issues and hold in my farts and worry that someone heard something while I was in the bathroom. Every time I’m in the car with someone who doesn’t know me well, I worry I’m going to have an attack and have to ask them to pull over at a gas station so I can poop. “Like now. Right now. Pull over.”

While it is tempting to judge and make fun of the lady farting and having diarrhea in the stall next to you—put yourself in her shoes. She, like me, could have just pulled over at a Kroger and stood in line while ten people mysteriously all had to use the Kroger bathroom at the same time. She, like me, could have just narrowly escaped pooping her pants. Honestly, we should be cheering for her—”You’ve got this, lady! You made it!” I would accept this, and maybe some sympathy, instead of judgment any day.

So, this IBS Awareness Month, think about how hard it is for people who have diarrhea all the time. Take a few steps toward poop acceptance today, kids.