When a thousand words feel at my fingertips,
No word alone can do the job.
No stencil or outline,
Etched onto the page
Can summarise this swell of emotion
Moments come and go,
Like ripples in the tide.
Feelings visit this way too –
Intense but short lived,
Powerful but with no forever weight.
I dream of art, of poetry, of speech –
Of having a giant release.
I dream of it feeling manageable
These surges of me.
There’s this surge of STUFF that surfaces the minute I dive into myself and try to release, even if it is what I am craving. I sit down to write and a few sentences in it’s like the world has opened up within me, energy is charging round me. My legs start tingling, my heart starts thumping, my mind starts racing. It pisses me off. It makes me agitated and angry because I started off with just one thing I wanted to write about, or I start off with a real somatic feeling of needing a creative release. I love it. It feels warm and healthy, but within moments it’s charging round my system like a squirrel on crack, or a trail of fire.
Maybe it’s trauma? Maybe it’s as I start to open up to my feelings, where they come from – the stuck trauma in my body – starts waking up and yelling in my face. Yelling in my body. This is why people take drugs – legal drugs. This is why people soften things, to be able to release them. I feel as though it happens especially when I haven’t done any writing or releasing for a while, and then I start…it’s like it’s been building up, reading to storm. And then when I put a pen to paper or a fingertip to keyboard, it all comes flyin’ and sticks around for days.
I notice I have a pattern. It’s like a pattern of shut down and then a pattern of explosion…a pattern of shut-off-from-my-feelings. A break, but also a disconnecting disembodied and disempowered, kinda depressed, place to be. But, a restful place. What follows is everything opposite. It’s an explosive surfacing of EVERYTHING. And it’s so energetic, so somatic. As though the world within me raises to the floor – to my brain, to the outside of my body – and takes me with it. To the floor. Or maybe to the ceiling. Sometimes my mind is running so freakin’ fast I don’t know where it’s gone. My body is racing the opposite direction, but just as fast. Then they collide and leave me gasping for a breath, frustrated and pissed. And completely daunted by attempting any creative release now. It feels worthless. Oh how I swung. Every. Time.
I just want to SIT DOWN AND WRITE, dammit. I just want a gentle somatic and emotional release. Or maybe not even not gentle, because nothing ever really is in this way, but at least not SO explosive. At least not so fucking flooring and exhausting. I want to start a sentence and finish the piece on the same train of thought I began, not one a million miles away. Anxiety and depression, exhaustion and triggered, are patterns that are completely normal for people from hard childhoods or with ptsd. It’s what ptsd is – anxiety and depression rollercoaster. And I think I have that creatively too. I have the ‘suppressed’ stage and then the ‘explosive’ stage, and then it begins again. I want a motherfucking releasing, comforting, empowering, healing, stage somewhere in there too PLEASE.
Oh creative release, you’re amazing. But you’re also a fucker when you trigger such overwhelm. And ptsd? Don’t even get me started on you.