On Writing as Cheating, and Crying in Public
Writing Through the Pain II
I’m spending my summer isolated in a friend’s apartment in the hills of Rijeka, a city where I don’t know a soul. I’m watching three very cute cats, so my day usually starts and ends with cleaning cat shit. I rarely leave.
To force myself out of the apartment, I tried finding things that interest me. I went to the open-air cinema a few times, I discovered a nice Asian restaurant, and from time to time I go to the beach.
One day, I found a literary event at the public library – a writing club’s closing night where people read their essays aloud.
Why not, right?
The first story was a love story to someone’s boyfriend (or husband, whatever) who was in the audience. It was disgustingly cheesy (and also kind of beautiful). I almost left after that one.
The second one was about someone’s grandmother who had five husbands. By husband number three, I was ready to go. Except, I’m one of those people who is embarrassed to just get up in a room full of people sitting peacefully and walk out in front of everyone. So I stayed and listened to stories about garden gnomes, a religious girl gone rogue, a shop that sells dreams…
Please don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I thought these stories were bad or not good enough for my fancy ass literature appetite. Not at all. These were talented people who dared to write in their own fashion, not trying to impress anyone. I appreciated that.
I was the problem. I was (actually still am) in a dark headspace, recovering from shit happening lately, and these light stories annoyed me. I wanted blood.
Then the grandmother girl read again. This time, a slightly different story. Much darker one. The one I came for.
Not even halfway through, I started crying. In a public library. Surrounded by complete strangers. I didn’t even bother to hide my tears. The girl reading the story was crying too, but much more subtly than me.
Every freaking word of her story hit all the right spots.
I did not expect that after granny’s affairs.
I left the library, put my headphones on, and walked by the sea, thinking about the story.
“I know she is winning. All I can do is occasionally cheat”, was how it ended. She was the pain.
I wondered if writing and sharing the story helped the girl who wrote it. I figured it did. It must have.
Or maybe I was just telling myself that.
I’ve been writing more lately than ever in my life, probably. Poems, essays, journal entries, letters I’m never going to send… I am documenting everything that pulled me into this darkness. I am not sure why. It feels mechanical to me. Like, if I were a musician, I’d make songs, if I were a painter, I’d paint pictures.
But does it help?
I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately. And yes, after I write a piece, it feels like I can breathe a little lighter. But then, after a while, I find myself in the same loops. Same patterns. Same pain.
The thing with writing is, it’s still a pretty lonely act, and I’m always wondering how much you can actually cure yourself, all by yourself. Yes, sometimes, it helps you get a whole other perspective. Sometimes it’s therapeutic. Sometimes it’s an act of profound self-confrontation. But maybe (sorry, I know, I know, I hate there is a but), at some point it just becomes another way to cheat the pain. To silence it for a bit, before it comes back.
What if I’m using it to postpone the real work? The one that requires me to make actual changes in my life? What if it’s just a tool for processing pain without transforming it?
I’m writing this not because I have answers (sorry again), but because I have questions. However, I think one thing might be true here – writing is at least the beginning. When you can put something down, it means you are ready to admit it to yourself. And to me, that sounds like a solid first step in the healing process.
I wasn’t going to write today. But this morning, as I was drinking my coffee, an idea appeared. Instinctively, I grabbed my laptop before it disappeared. I wasn’t sure where it would go, but I knew I needed to put it down. I abandoned my coffee, my Sunday morning plans, and started writing.
If you have written anything in your life, you know that feeling. In those moments, you don’t think about whether it makes sense (that comes later, lol). You just write. And there are maybe a few things in this life that beat that feeling.
I wish this was a sweet story about granny and her five husbands. I wish it was funny. I wish it was a love story.
But dammit, this is all I got. And you know what? It feels so damn good to write it down.
Even if it’s cheating, I’ll take it.
So, yes, write for the feeling it gives you. Write about your grandmother, your garden gnomes, whatever the hell you want - as long as it comes from inside you. Not to fix yourself. Not to impress anyone. Not to prove anything.
Write because you have to.
Thanks for reading and being here – you make my lonely summer days a bit less lonely. It would be nice to hear your thoughts on this, so please don’t be afraid to drop a comment, I’ll be happy to respond.
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Hello Nina, firstly I'm here, we're all here. You may feel lonely, for which I'm sad, but you are not alone. Cold comfort perhaps, but true and important. I hear and sense the darkness you describe you're feeling. Perhaps because I know darkness well myself. Writing does really help, I think. But it's not enough on its own. Personally I also need talking, whether that's my therapist or friends or my therapy AI chat it (surprisingly good on the Headspace app). I also need distraction to give me a break. I also need rest. I also need work my writing, though I'm too ill at the moment with fatigue. What I'm trying to say is writing is very good, but nothing is enough on its own. More than one piece is needed to complete a jigsaw.
Enough of that. What matters is you're lonely, you're hurting, and that's rough. I'm battling exhaustion and heartbreak in a heatwave, living alone for the first time in 2 decades. I feel you. I can't help fix anything, because that's impossible, but I am a fellow human walking their own difficult path as you walk yours. Stay in touch. Keep reaching out. Sending love ❤️
Writing is like crying. It won't fix anything, but it's very healthy.