Express Yourself

Express yourself, speak your mind, and free your soul!


During my teens, when my neuroses were just beginning to emerge, when my hormones created a constant manic-depressive state of mind, I turned to writing as an outlet. Rather than act out, color my hair red, sneak vodka from the liquor cabinet, I stole into my room, slipped onto the corner of my bed, my back against the way, knees raised in front of me to support my writing tablet, and I wrote. What I wrote, in retrospect, was probably more dribble than substance, not worthy for anyone else to read. But for me the words I put on the page, hurriedly and sloppily, so as not to lose the thought, were for me, prize-worthy. Those words were my companion, my reality and, my therapy. Any angst I suffered dissipated once the words began to flow. With those words, I created the world as I saw it, as I wanted it to be, and with my words I became whomever I thought I could be. At worse, with my words I extracted from my teenage soul all the bad energy that courses through a teenager’s cells. And, often I emerged from those pilgrimages into solitude with a clearer mind and a fresher outlook. In my generation, girls wrote diaries; then the diaries became journals. Every young girl received a “journal” as a gift at some point in her life. I eschewed the diary and the journal. I needed more space to capture my thoughts; the pages of the diary and the journal were too small. My writing wanted to SHOUT and jump off the page.





Then life happened, college, marriage, children, homework to oversee. Writing lapsed into a once a year event and only out of guilt... a few chosen words of endearment, a brief apology for not keeping in touch with promises to do better, only to relapse again, year, after year, after year. Every once in a while I wrote a masterful yearly summary of life's events. The words flowed, the emotions were touching and the warmth palpable, at least to me.



I did manage to make a living by writing, but it was not creative, it was not cathartic and it was devoid of inspiration. I became a technical writer, no byline, no credits. Mine was a “if this, then that” type of writing, used to express what users wanted from a computer program or what users need to do in order to use that program.



Now that I’m in the third third of life, the kids are grown and the long hours editing term papers and correcting grammar are long gone. Grandchildren are here, but some one else is doing the editing. I have once again discovered the therapy of writing. It affords me a way of expressing myself in a manner that spoken words cannot. I am more eloquent, more honest and more at ease when I’m writing. Despite my age, my maturity and life experiences, the same fears that gripped me at 14 still exist deep inside me, and my writing allows me to express and deal with these fears in a safe, non-judgmental manner. I can deal with long forgotten injuries, unfulfilled dreams, diminished aspirations, as well as the vicissitudes of life that keep tripping me up on my way to a nirvana that I know is just one good merciful act away.



My computer is my ally. What could I have done with spell-check, with grammar check all those years ago? I have embraced the internet as my new best friend, but at the same time, I do deplore it for the damage its expedience has wrought upon our language. While it has opened the world of information and opportunities, and like no other tool before, tremendously facilitated dialogue, it has also engendered a disregard for the beauty and subtlety of language. I bemoan how the internet—so egalitarian and utilitarian, so accessible, so valuable—has muted our ability to converse and express ourselves with well-striking appropriate language. We’re in a hurry, we “gotta send,” “gotta respond.” LOL, OMB, BTW, it’s a wonder anyone can still pass a spelling test.



We no longer write letters; we use the email, which is great, so quick so efficient and so cheap. But the price we pay for expedience has been at the expense of our eloquence. We now talk in LOL’s, OMG’s, BTW’s...We’ve lost our voice.



In my own way, I want to preserve the eloquence; I want to find a voice that will outlast me.



I remember the notes my mother treasured, notes from my father when he was courting her. I remember as a child sitting with her in moments of nostalgia that dominated her attention. I remember the delicate paper, the creases that obliterated parts of words, the musty smell, but most of all I remember her voice as she read the words to me... every once in a while skipping a line or two. During those moments, she stepped back into history, her history, and relived the feelings and the sentiments those written words had once conveyed. I no longer have these missives to enjoy. They were too fragile and due to lack of proper care did not survive the test of time, and whatever was in them died just as my mother did, leaving only faint recollections. But, while they existed, she treasured them.



How many of today’s generation, 50 years from now, will ever experience that retreat into their own history, will ever be transported by the touch, the smell of an old letter, of a loved one’s words jumping from the page, evoking timeless emotions, memories, and the sense of having someone watching over your shoulder? How many will discover the crushed petals of a flower within the faded pages of a love note?



My late husband was a warm and loving person, but a man of few words. He did have a knack for finding just the right card with just the right sentiments to give for special occasions. But when he died, those old and yellowed cards were of little comfort. I needed his words, not Hallmark’s. I desperately needed something more substantial to sustain me, to allow me to hold on a little longer to the past too rapidly slipping away. I went through all our shared mementos, but never felt the connection that I needed to help me in my grief. I longed for one last conversation. I desperately needed to "hear" his voice, listen to his words. Yet, there was nothing. Then one day, my sister-in-law, in an effort to comfort me in my grief, sent me a letter he had written to her many years before his death. In it he wrote of his life, his family, his trials and tribulation in a way that he could only share with a person whose history was so intertwined with his. It was never intended for my eyes, but now reading his thoughts justified my grief and reassured me that the memories I harbored were indeed genuine and real. I read the letter, and then read it again and again, each time deriving more comfort from the sight of his handwriting, and the “sound” of his thought floating off the page, and savoring an unbroken connection.





Thus, I want to leave a little part of me, that part of me that isn’t visible, but palpable only by an intensely perceptive soul. I want to leave something of myself, my true self—evidence of who I am, who I wanted to be, who I might have been.



So, for my children, my friends, I begin to write.





M.