writing | Working Class Sha(wo)man

My dad’s got leukemia and he’s not going to get treatment. it’s hard. it brings up all of these feelings. i realize I’m the only person in his life who’s known him the longest. as his mind goes, the other versions of him, all of his adult life, i’ve been the only constant other than his parents and aunt mo. and she’s out of the picture. with that bullshit.

So, how do I reconcile his lack of care? actual physical care. there are so many me-s that know so many him-s. while i’m better equipped to deal with all of these characters, i’m emotionally worn out. i’m resistant to becoming the adult in this situation. i’m wrestling with my shoulds. there’s a simple wrod that describes what i’m feeling, but i can’t find it. ah, obligation. see, not so hard. i have to define for myself my degrees of obligation. but when i see him, i just want to take care of him. he’s so pitiful. his mind gone is devastating. it happened so fast, i didn’t know the last time we talked was the last time he’d understand me. but that’s always the way. that’s life.

so many layers. primal shit. my eyes are constantly wet with tears.

poor old bastard. he called his current wife his 3rd wife’s name to me. I don’t know if he does it to her and don’t want to ask her. that’s her husband. what a shame. she’s respecting his wishes and breaking her own heart. she loves him. i feel sorry for her. AND have to keep my distance a bit. I feel as selfish as I think he is. i guess not out of character for either of us.

Now we just watch him die, i guess. keep moving through our days. there’s no script for this. this is pure individuation. while being a shared human experience. i guess the routineness of it lends itself to each person going through it differently. it’s one of the few experiences all humans will have one way or another.

i haven’t even gotten to the what has he taught me part of the show.

what will i lose? what do i want to get from him now? what if I can’t get anything, what then? more trauma?

and while i want to help minnie and taariq, i’m fighting for my life in my own mask right now. for some reason (ha-reason!) i always thought i’d be super detatched from the parents dying. this is hitting me really hard. like full body ache hard. all the little me-s are destroyed by the news. they still see they’re tall handsome laughing dad. 30’s dad. before he became so heavy.

but i also have been confronted with my body shame shit too. i always chalked it up to the islam, but it’s some dad shit. his pscyho sexual shit is also coming out in that he thinks everyone in the hospital is having sex all the time and something about movie theater masturbation. it was the disgust/ can you believe it/ i don’t want to be a part of it that was so…bizarre. that’s some deep therapist time there.

It takes everything in me some days to sit down and write. We’ve all read it all before about successful writer’s habits, advice, routines, trying to glean some comfort in seeing that somebody went to bed really early or slept really late or drank 1000 cups of coffee in four hours before they, I don’t know, threw up all over their work and did it all again later.

But the thing that still grips me is the fear. The fear of exposure because as Nikita Lalwani blogged, all great stories are based in truth. It’s the exposures to me that draw me in. Seeing the weakness in characters allows me to be kinder with myself because that connection and tenderness is what allows me to be both tender and brutal with my characters.

But allowing myself to be myself in my writing is really the hardest thing. My self-censor has re-risen since moving to the UK from The States. Everything is double checked for tone, a lack of cultural similarities that makes jokes fall flat. Entendre has no mirror.

One thing the fear keeps me from is joining a writer’s workshop. Hell, showing my work to anyone in general, except my trusted few, ties me in knots and makes my writing sound like a robot wrote it. There’s that fear of exposing that I’m scared.

But when I’m tender with myself. Really let me say what I want, how I want to…it flows so beautifully. I can close my eyes and see the words, the space, the person, feel the mood.

I want us all to walk towards that fear. That discomfort leads to a joy. Those of us who are writers, in the ‘cause I gotta’ category, we gotta do it. But I think that we all need some sort of support.

If you want to move past the fear, this website is the place to begin moving past your fear and grabbing hold to your passions. Share your stories with me, anonymously if you must. But share with me.