I’m up in the air again. I basically flew home, prepped the house, went to bed, and ended up right back here: on a plane. And we’re probably going to land any minute. Well, we’re scheduled to land in another 30 or 40 minutes or so. But if you’re scared of flying, you know that can feel like a life time. My body is stressed this week– and it’s making my mind stressed. But really, it feels like a “which one came first” kind of thing.
The clouds look so fluffy from the sky, dont they? Like there should be absolutely nothing to be scared of. Yet here I am, each and every time, breathing in and out, asking myself, “is this fear useful?” it’s not.
It’s the only thing that sort of works.
Marlowe is excited. Really excited. In awe of the clouds and the land– and of course, the final destination. And all I can think is, “I’ve got to make my body feel better” and “I cant shed this fear feeling on to her” — and lastly, as the plane REALLY begins to shake, “maybe those airplaine chips wrent really a good idea. I’d rather go out with a bowl full of pineapple in my body.” All totally normal thoughts I’m sure.
I feel bad that I’m not excited for Massachusetts. I’m excited to see my mom and family. I’m excited to see the two life long friends I have there, but outside of that, I’m not sure. Year after year, I want to feel excitement for the place I grew up, but I struggle to. It’s gotten better since I was a teen, but I still struggle. And I feel guilt because of my struggle. And the negative circle of emotions continue.
(Maybe I’ll try the meditation place again this time around. I liked it there. It was different than anything I’ve done.)
Speaking of home and childhood and everything… my mom recently found a stack of saved papers. A collection of my artwork, notes, diaries (that should be burned), school grade sheets, and everything in between.
Year after year I struggled in writing. (overuse of a word, anyone?)
A’s in science, art, history, and even spelling.
But in writing? No.
Yet here I am, year after year: writing.
I’ve always been a writer. I could and would sit with a notepad and a pen and write 15+ page letters to friends on each flight and every flight as a child and teen— taking my mind off the fear and focusing on all the consuming thoughts swilring through my brain. Taking it in and letting it out. And here I am. Someone who was told, year after year, that my writing skills were insufficient: writing for a living.
My grammar? Well, I write how I talk. It’s choppy, long winded, all over the place, and sometimes down right incoherent. But that doesn’t matter in the end. I never wrote to be a great writer, a perfect writer. I wrote to let out all the emotions and ideas in my head. I’m still me. I haven’t just changed, I’ve grown.
And here I am. Love it or hate it, I’m writing for a living.
It’s laughable really.
The friend I ran into the other day? The one I havent seen in a decade or so? He said, “You haven’t changed at all Drea.” My response? In search for a moment of laughter, “I know, I’m still a nerd.”
“Yes, you are.”
In another, slightly self deprecating moment I said, “How I became a writer is beyond me.”
He confirmed, “You were always going to become a writer, Drea.”
And in that moment I realized how I got here.
Thank you guys for accepting me. For looking beyond my terrible grammar, my usually grainy iphone photos, and my overabundance of weirdness. I dont want to sound like a broken record, (though I’m sure I often do) but I appreciate it.