I have a secret. Imagine me whispering it in your ear. Because I sure as hell can’t say it out loud.
I haven’t written for almost a year. An entire year. And I’m not just talking about this blog. I pretty much gave up writing a year ago. I told myself, “I’ll get back to it.” But I haven’t. If you’ve asked me how my writing is going in the past year, whatever I told you was a lie. Because I haven’t been doing it. I haven’t been able to.
And if I don’t write – TODAY – I fear for my sanity. So here I am. Even though I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to eke this out. Even though I’m having a panic attack. I’m here. And I’m writing this. Be proud of me, unshowered, with my ass in this chair, shirking all other responsibilities.
Eleanor Roosevelt said, “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” And I’m beginning to think I can’t write anymore. And I can’t let that happen. Because writing is one of the things I care most about in my life. So here I am. Frozen solid. And trying to thaw.
I’ve spent the last year pretty much frozen. I know exactly when it happened. I keep waiting for Facebook to remind me of the day, because I know it’s coming in one of those happy little algorithmic flashback reminders. I don’t need to be reminded of it. It haunts me.
A little over a year ago, I was getting my writing shit together, living in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico. I was pitching articles to some of my favorite blogs and to my delight, I was getting accepted. I was on track to start the second draft of my book. My writing life was beginning to have a life. Matt and I decided it was time to get back to the states. So we left Mexico and did one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life: cleaning out our storage unit and leaving behind our beloved Venice Beach and our community of friends.
Then, because of this article I wrote, my father and step-mother completely abandoned me – on the night before I left my home of Los Angeles. A real one-two gut punch that has left me a frozen, anxious mess for an entire year.
The craziest thing about being abandoned by my dad and step-mother is there was no private phone call, no text, just some extraordinarily mean-spirited words flung at me via Facebook. A reasonable adult would have called me and said something along the lines of, “Clearly you’re still upset about this thing that happened. Can we talk about it?” The article I wrote wasn’t even about them. There are two little critical sentences about them, and I even gave them some grace in the article. If you’d like to read a no-hold’s-barred critical article about them, here’s one I wrote on Quora about what it’s like being a neglected child.
Matt and I drove to Birmingham, Alabama to go live with friends for the summer, but I don’t remember much about the drive. I remember reading and re-reading my step-mother’s public words on Facebook calling me ‘two-faced’ and saying that my dad ‘isn’t doing too well now’ because of me. It’s really awful to realize that the people who are supposed to love you no matter what are actively wishing for bad things to happen to you. I had a panic attack upon arrival in Birmingham – my feet started tingling and I had to fight an all-consuming urge to run, even as some of my favorite people in world hugged me and welcomed me whole-heartedly into their lives.
Birmingham, in a lot of ways, was a colossal disaster as my life just sort of disintegrated. My relationship with my really truly incredible, wonderful friends I lived with completely fell apart. My relationship with my husband nearly fell apart. My sleep patterns changed. Sometimes the anxiety in my head would say, “You need to sleep with all your clothes on just in case you need to get away real fast.” So I would humor that ridiculous request, if only to prove to myself that the anxious thoughts were wrong.
I would spend days sitting in my room among my boxes of things and alternately cry and stare into space. I took a lot of long walks up to The Vulcan. I read fifty books. I watched a lot of Jane The Virgin. But I didn’t write. I couldn’t. How could I ever write again when my words had caused my own father to completely abandon me?
How did I know he completely abandoned me?
I texted him, “Dad, I love you.” His response? “No.” And I haven’t heard from him since. It hurts like hell. It hurts like fucking hell. I can let it sink me or I can just own it and rise. I can almost feel the permafrost in my soul melting with every word I write. So thank you for reading.
Anne Lamott says, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
And it’s been almost one year. And I’m still here. And god dammit, I’m going to write. My stepmother wrote to me, “Remember Venice ‘Queenie’ that kingdoms fall all the time.”
Yeah, they sure do. But this one-time Venice Queen is rising again from the ashes! Building this new kingdom is going to be fun.
### That picture above is The Vulcan statue in Birmingham, Alabama, the largest cast iron statue in the world, and one of my only friends last summer.
I am so glad you are still here….strength and love.Anne
Thank you, Anne! I am so glad you are here with me and so happy you are part of my family!
{{{Anna}}} Thank you for including me in your journey. I’m so sorry the last year has been so painful, and I’m glad you’re writing again.
Love you, my friend.
I love you, too, Stephanie. Thanks for walking with me on the journey.
Oh sweetie, I am hugging you long distance! That post feels like you tore a limb off to get it done, but it’s beautiful and it is such a declaration of purpose. You write, woman! Write and write and write. Sending love to you and Matt. And big hopes that the broken friendships can be repaired.
Feeling you!!! Love and hugs right back. 🙂
That’s the problem with families. Everyone has an agenda. Take care of yourself, dear Anna, and let karma take care of those who do not love and support you. Your candor and willingness to show your true feelings is your stregth. Carry on! Sending love and great big hugs! XOX
Feeling your love, thank you, Dorothy!
Please keep on writing. It is always a delight to read you, even if sometimes your words are inhabited by pain, it always rises in the end.
Charlie, my fellow free-spirited friend . . . <3
It takes what it takes. It took you a year, and a lot of heartache and abuse–from yourself and from your loved ones. But that is what it took. And you did it. You wrote the most important blog post I will ever read from you. I’m proud of you–it is much harder than most people can understand. A body at rest, stays at rest.
You are in motion.
Stay in motion, my friend. You are a mover and a shaker.
Shake-on.
I love you!
Thank you for always helping me with self-care, you really are an Angel!
I am so sorry for the suffering you have endured for the last year. Thank you for writing again. I hope you can find solace and inspiration in the fact that your writings have helped so many people (myself included). I too have slept fully clothed and thought I was alone in that weirdness.
Love you! Keep rising!
Thank you for letting me know that I’m not the only one! Love you, Robin. I miss you.
Anna,
I’m sorry you went through such a long, dark time. I hope you are able to reclaim those relationships.
Also, I hope you might have gotten to read “Carry Me Home” by Diane McWhorter. It’s about Birmingham and civil rights, and it begins and ends with the Vulcan statue.
Love, Mike
Mike! Thanks! I will check out that book for sure! 🙂
Hugging you from DC. As a girl that struggles with her own issues with her father, and a step mom that makes me feel like the worst daughter in the world. This really hit home. Anxiety is a hell of a monster. Sometimes I curb stomp it in the ground sometimes it consume me and pins me to the bed. And sometimes we just go for a ride together. Keep writing lady. I believe in you
Mmmmm . . . hugs to you, too! I’m sorry your step-mother can’t just love you . . . it takes less energy to love.
Ok, I’m subscribing to your blog so now you HAVE to write!!!
🙂 thanks for subscribing. And reading, and giving me more reasons to write.