Sticks and stones may break my bones
Three years ago I sprained my ankle. It was really stupid. I was getting pizza with my roommate. We started crossing the street. The light turned green. I hastened my step and lost my balance as that step landed in a pot hole. It was humiliating more than anything. The ankle healed pretty quickly. Enough to get me to tech week for the show I was doing. And back to running, which I appreciated a lot more after being rendered immobile.
It healed. But it was never the same. If I stand on my feet for a long time dancing to Coldplay, or if the humidity thickens the air, I feel it in my ankle. Not pain. Not comfort. Something in between to remind me that it isn’t as perfect a joint as it was before. I don’t let it stop me from taking a walk or run… I try not to. But sometimes – when I’m looking for an excuse – I let it stop me from pushing myself to do more.
One of my friends, who is also a writer and actor, often comments how we don’t see the scars of emotional hurt. In fact he wrote a play about it. I’ve been thinking about that a lot these past couple of days. Those emotional sprains and tears are resonating in each and every one of us. In me. And like my ankle, I can’t let it stop me from walking. But every once in a while, the echo of that pain makes me want to sit down, curl up into a ball, and not go anywhere.
Last summer, I was told to my face that I wasn’t really that talented. That my creativity wasn’t good enough to deserve respect. That my kindness was a façade to hide my meaner nature. This was all delivered to me on the tail end of a tech Sunday. It wasn’t the person who said it that ultimately ripped my heart. It was the friends who heard those words and said nothing to argue against it. The ones I loved and thought loved me. It was awful, so awful I still can’t fully comprehend that it was real.
But it’s been close to a year since that conversation. I took myself out of that poisonous atmosphere. I cocooned myself for most of that year to lick my wounds and let them close up again. I’ve channeled all that hurt and thwarted creativity into a new effort. 488 pages of effort. I’m proud of that effort. I am delighted and thrilled that my slowly growing handful of readers are appreciating that effort. It makes me smile without thinking.
Except, that wounded heart still echoes. The demon of doubt lingers with the memory of those unkind words uttered to me without hesitation in the Hovey basement. What if I’m not really that talented? What if I don’t really deserve to have anyone respect my creativity? What if all that goodness I try to give to the earth really doesn’t matter?
I know this is illogical. I can’t really speculate on the motivation of those cruel statements. In fact, I shouldn’t. Anyone who is that careless with another person’s emotions isn’t worth thinking about. And ‘friends’ who let someone say that… really aren’t friends at all. Besides, it’s water over the dam. But fear makes it pretty easy to let the phantom pain of those comments be an excuse to stop and curl up in a ball.
Ultimately, I can’t do that. I can’t give credibility to those heartless words. If anything, I should make them the fuel to propel me further. I know that’s what I have to do. The words will always hurt. But sitting still and not moving will make them hurt more. I’m not still hobbling around on a crutch because I sprained my ankle three years ago. I’m not going to sit back now and let my wounded ego stop me. Because regret is a wound I give to myself. And one that I can prevent.
It healed. But it was never the same. If I stand on my feet for a long time dancing to Coldplay, or if the humidity thickens the air, I feel it in my ankle. Not pain. Not comfort. Something in between to remind me that it isn’t as perfect a joint as it was before. I don’t let it stop me from taking a walk or run… I try not to. But sometimes – when I’m looking for an excuse – I let it stop me from pushing myself to do more.
One of my friends, who is also a writer and actor, often comments how we don’t see the scars of emotional hurt. In fact he wrote a play about it. I’ve been thinking about that a lot these past couple of days. Those emotional sprains and tears are resonating in each and every one of us. In me. And like my ankle, I can’t let it stop me from walking. But every once in a while, the echo of that pain makes me want to sit down, curl up into a ball, and not go anywhere.
Last summer, I was told to my face that I wasn’t really that talented. That my creativity wasn’t good enough to deserve respect. That my kindness was a façade to hide my meaner nature. This was all delivered to me on the tail end of a tech Sunday. It wasn’t the person who said it that ultimately ripped my heart. It was the friends who heard those words and said nothing to argue against it. The ones I loved and thought loved me. It was awful, so awful I still can’t fully comprehend that it was real.
But it’s been close to a year since that conversation. I took myself out of that poisonous atmosphere. I cocooned myself for most of that year to lick my wounds and let them close up again. I’ve channeled all that hurt and thwarted creativity into a new effort. 488 pages of effort. I’m proud of that effort. I am delighted and thrilled that my slowly growing handful of readers are appreciating that effort. It makes me smile without thinking.
Except, that wounded heart still echoes. The demon of doubt lingers with the memory of those unkind words uttered to me without hesitation in the Hovey basement. What if I’m not really that talented? What if I don’t really deserve to have anyone respect my creativity? What if all that goodness I try to give to the earth really doesn’t matter?
I know this is illogical. I can’t really speculate on the motivation of those cruel statements. In fact, I shouldn’t. Anyone who is that careless with another person’s emotions isn’t worth thinking about. And ‘friends’ who let someone say that… really aren’t friends at all. Besides, it’s water over the dam. But fear makes it pretty easy to let the phantom pain of those comments be an excuse to stop and curl up in a ball.
Ultimately, I can’t do that. I can’t give credibility to those heartless words. If anything, I should make them the fuel to propel me further. I know that’s what I have to do. The words will always hurt. But sitting still and not moving will make them hurt more. I’m not still hobbling around on a crutch because I sprained my ankle three years ago. I’m not going to sit back now and let my wounded ego stop me. Because regret is a wound I give to myself. And one that I can prevent.
Comments
But secondly, and more importantly, you are such a beautiful person. Which naturally makes you more delicate, and for some reason makes you more of a target. The fact that someone/anyone said those things to you... devastates me. Even though I understand, because it's happened to me. Do we ever recover from such things??? I don't know, but perhaps we can channel these experiences into something new, and through it grow stronger, so that when someone decides to attack us and our gentle beauty in the future, it doesn't devestate us as much.
The fact that you cocooned yourself away and WROTE A BOOK in that time proves how strong you are, and proves that your creativity will never take a back seat to someone's cruel insecurities. You are amazing, as you prove every day, sometimes in fantastic creative endeavors, sometimes with the quiet, gentle beauty of your spirit, and the way you share yourself with others.
I am honored to know you, to call you friend. And to be anywhere near all that overflowing creative wonder. <3
so kara said everything i'd say, just better. she, like you, has a gift of words. i have a gift of chemistry... and if you'd like to go to a show with said people in it... i'll bake for you. the second 1/2 of the show will be interesting as they all try to fit in the bathroom time they will need. i won't "kill" them, but maybe a hospital stay?? or that startled look on stage when they realize they have a few more scenes before they can bathroom and it's needed NOW??
i'll write more when i calm down... i'm soooo mad. crappy, self-important "people". *gr*