Unwritten

I'm just beginning. The pen's in my hand, ending unplanned. 

Writing was on my mind all day today. A heightened sense of creativity swept in this morning and wooed me, leaving me in a fantasy filled, as usual, with applause for moi, this time recognizing my talent with the written word. Please keep the eye-rolling to a minimum. You think I'm awesome, too, or you wouldn't be reading this.

Alas, two hours have passed, and all I can come up with is that I don't know what to write about.

I put music on for inspiration. I turned it off for quiet time with my thoughts. Then I remembered that quiet time with my thoughts is seldom a good idea, so I tried finding the right song. You know, for inspiration. I didn't find one. And Adele made me cry.

So I adjusted my physical space. I raised the desk up to stretch my legs.

Get the blood flowing and the ideas will follow, right?

Then I lowered it back down to sit.

Get comfy and the ideas will come, right? 

I swapped chairs. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Then ballet sounded good, so I practiced my plies in first, second and fifth positions, all in front of the mirror, and even did an impressive grande plie in fifth. I have taken, according to my Fitbit, an alarming 900+ steps since first sitting down to write.

Maybe I should've gone for a run instead of writing tonight. I bet I could've gotten in at least four miles.

This all seemed like a great idea two days ago, but there is apparently more to this intentional writing thing than I thought. I feel like Ralphie in A Christmas Story when he dreams that his teacher gives him an A+++++++ for his "theme" about "an official Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time."

Oh, yeah. I'm feeling that good with words right now.

I do realize that I've only just (officially) begun this writing journey and that everything develops over time, but I'm somebody who has a Master's degree in teaching English and once had a career that essentially depended on my being good with words. I like to think I'm great with words! I'm a MASTER! Or, if I were being good with those words, I might say something more intelligent and refer to myself as someone who is syntactically skilled in English (and Spanish). But that's beside the point.

Maybe it's writer's block. Does it normally happen this soon? When will it pass? I bet Stephen King feels this way sometimes. I wonder if you can be diagnosed with writer's block. Are there side effects? I just realized I haven't eaten in hours, which is definitely a symptom of something being off with me. This can't be good. Is this what they mean by "starving artist"? Is the word "starving" a double entendre referencing a lack of financial growth AND actual hunger? 

Okay, okay. Enough with my ramblings. I mean, I think I'm funny, but I promise that all this sorting through my thoughts has me finally coming to a point.

The truth is that all of the above has been a delightfully playful distraction from the fact that I am not yet ready to delve into most of the topics I actually want to address. I find writing to be very cathartic, and, in case you somehow missed it, I really love words. ALL the words. It is therefore quite fitting that I would use as many words as possible in this post to avoid saying the ONE I really want to talk about.

SUICIDE.

My goal is to start more conversations about suicide, and now, nearly FOUR hours later, I've finally just mentioned it. How curious this one little word is, stirring up so much emotionally that we generally can't find the words to talk about it, and thus mostly say nothing at all.

But I'm a master of words, remember? Not to worry!

It seems to me that I'm also on my way to becoming a master on the topic of suicide. Dismal, I know. We're a small club, though larger than you probably imagine. There are no fees to join. General admission, however, is a pretty steep price that typically starts with, but isn't limited to, the loss of a loved one to suicide. Being, or ever having been, suicidal oneself is also a qualifying factor. 

Please don't come knocking on my door looking for an application. Sorry, but I'd much rather maintain the exclusivity of this club and prefer nobody else join. Truly, we're beyond full capacity. You wouldn't like it anyways since we're not very fun. Those of us who choose to participate in the club pack into rooms at community centers and other easily-rented rooms where the topic of conversation is a downright turnoff. And you wouldn't get our jokes. In fact, you'd probably think we have a sick sense of humor, and it's just awkward when everyone else in the room gets the joke and you don't. We won't put you through that.

But what you CAN do is join me in getting comfortable with being UNcomfortable talking about suicide. It's that simple, and it could look a lot of different ways. Maybe check in on somebody you're worried about. Share my website with someone. Do a little research to get educated on how frighteningly common suicide is at a global level. Yes, I am finishing with a call to action! 

The dearest person in your life might be considering suicide. What are YOU going to do about it?