It's All One Story

I've had a full beard for the last few months. I just shaved it off. Like this: sideburns gone leaving the full van dyke. Took a shower. Another look in the mirror. Grungy looking. I thought I liked that. Nope. Like this: mustache gone. This has been my look for decades. Quirky goatee. I thought I liked that. Nope. Like this: shaved it all. Ugh, that chin. Lack thereof. I hate the way I look. Round head. Weak chin. No upper lip. Scarred and lumpy face. Scared face. Sad face. All those times I said, "But I am smiling." Lies.

Shaving was hard. I lifted and put down the trimmer a few times before I found the nerve to just do the sideburns. I've been planning to do some self portraits with the beard which is why I thought shaving it was hard.

Looking in the mirror, I thought, OK, this could still work for the photos I have in mind. But I found myself lifting and dropping the trimmer again. The mustache also had to go, so it went. Still staring, starting to feel regret. But why? My upper lip is one of the few body parts I like. It's not full, but it looks soft, sensitive. I like the sleek lines of it. And the goatee hides the weak chin. This is the look I've worn for a few decades. It suits me. It has been my most comfortable mask. Goatee, meet trimmer. Ugh, that chin. Go back two paragraphs.

"My work here is done," I said to my therapist last week. It was a joke, with a little bit of truth in it. The prior several days I was productive, in a way. I wrote a lot. For hours at a time. Thousands of words. Most of it wasn't creative writing. Wasn't personal. It was perfunctory. It served a purpose. We met on Wednesday, but we were supposed to have met on Monday.

On Monday, I wrote personal. I started with a few paragraphs on what the photo meant for me. But then I followed my thoughts and I wrote about my young self. I remembered a specific moment walking alone as a child. It's one of the memories that has always been there, but never examined. The moment was benign. I was simply walking on the side of the road, looking down at the sandy shoulder, and I found, and picked up, and placed in my pocket, a rusted bolt. It felt like I had found a treasure, and I hoped I found more.

This memory has occurred to me many times, but it hasn't held any specific meaning or significance. That I was aware of.

In the essay I was writing I also wandered into my teen years and my twenties. I was remembering times I spent walking with a camera, taking photos. I was also making a connection between my new passion for walking with a camera and those earlier times.

I am not a disciplined writer. I don't even like to call myself a writer. I don't get writer's block. I get writer's fright. I've said this before. Why does writing frighten me? Because when writing, I can't lie. I can't hide.

I want a bumper sticker that says, "I'd rather be dreaming." And by "dreaming" I mean "hiding."

On Monday, writing about a photograph led me to connections with myself on different timelines. And while I didn't realize it until Wednesday, I may have grokked the significance of the roadside walking memory. Something happens to me when I'm writing. Something that explains my fear of it. 

On Monday, as I was writing, I lost myself in it. Which is weird because of something I'm gonna say in a minute. I wrote through the time I was supposed to be on Zoom with my therapist. I wrote through an email reminder, a calendar alert, and a text message from Brian.

Neil Young was once heckled while performing. Some guy shouted, "Neil, your songs all sound the same!"

Neil replied, "That's because it's all one song." 

These here words are all one story. Some of your favorite writers do it, so why can't I? 

"My work here is done," is what I said after telling Brian about the roadside memory. Because in that moment, in the telling of it, I recognized the significance of the memory and why it has stayed with me.

In that moment of finding and claiming a rusted bolt, I was... interested... curious... pleased with myself... I was also out in the world, alone, and I felt safe. I was proud of myself for feeling confident and capable in my body. Something in my little brain made a note to self: Remember what this feels like.

I said to Brian, "it feels like I have finally re-connected with my pre-trauma self."

When I sit to write, I can't hide. That's it. That's my fright. I have to take my mask off. I write things that I can't speak aloud.

Writing, for me, requires a state of mind that I have been avoiding forever. It's also the missing piece that I've always craved.

To be able to write, I have to stop hiding. I have to allow myself to be seen. Creativity, for me, requires spontaneity, vulnerability, and honesty. These don't come easy to men like me. Children of the Secret.

In writing, by revealing my secrets, I find myself. And I have to keep doing it. It's not a compulsion. It's more like a release, a surrendering, a confession, and a love letter. Because my work here will never be done, I write.