Beaks, Teeth, Poison
Writing, in a way, is a dissociative process. It is a dialogue between myself and the page, on which I write only part of what I think. Sometimes my fingers are paralyzed by a voice commanding that everything I write is shit, censoring my thoughts at the gateway of my mind when they try to exit. This is my biggest obstacle. Often I avoided writing for anticipation of this berating, shaming voice, which has been with me since childhood. It is a sort of demented superego that became particularly vocal around age eight. I have been building up a counter-force that sometimes triumphs, composed of logic and urgent exasperation. This is the speaker in the affirmation section. A part of me loves myself. The other, older part harbors fury, hatred, violence and blame. I am still trying to figure out what this has to do with poetry: my mom gave me the love I needed to survive, but she died before I was able to internalize it. Even if my poems are awful, I had the strength and courage to write them, which is something most people are not able to appreciate. I wanted to do a writing SIP because I thought it would help me grow as a person. I certainly underestimated the difficulty of this. Along the journey I have regretted choosing and English SIP-I could have done a better job in the psychology department, and if my work had been empirical and removed, it could have served as a coping mechanism instead of something I needed help coping with. Simplified, the distinction comes down to thinking versus feeling. Feeling takes more courage.
x, 40 p.
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