Finding Your Voice

Moments of great epiphanies come in threes.

In the, almost half a century of my journey here on Earth, there have been three moments that silenced my inner voice. That voice that told me not to write. That voice that made it hard to share what I have written. The voice that told me I’m not good enough, witty enough, that no one cares about what I have to say. That voice, my voice became more and more silenced.

WHY?

Why do we always listen to our negative voice? What makes that Negative Ned on your shoulder easier to believe than the Positive Polly? What does Ned know that Polly doesn’t? Ned’s voice seems to be louder in my head than Polly? Is Ned more real than Polly? Am I sounding schizophrenic? I am a writer, that might very well be.

We cheer on kids every day, but somewhere along the way, the cheerleading stops. The middle school cliques are starting in preschool now, and that competitive whisper of “I’m great and you’re not” seems to come earlier and earlier.

I can’t control outside forces, but I can control my surroundings: what I let in, how I react, and how I set boundaries when those are crossed.

I have a very good hunch that many of my neurotic qualities come from my upbringing: latch-key kid, middle child of 5, 6 days of theology pumped down my throat, catholic school up bringing (8 of the most formative years it was attached to a convent with nuns as teachers), a father that survived the Holocaust and escaped Russian occupied Poland during the Korean War, and my mother, whom I love- well- that is for another day.

I had opportunities, sure, but my self-esteem was never up for the challenge.

As an older mother with a young child, I ear worm him while he sleeps, “you are kind, you are handsome and smart and funny and you are so very loved.” I speak to him as I wish someone would have spoken to me, to my inner child. And I realized that I have the control to talk to myself that way and I don’t.

WHY ARE WE UNKIND TO OURSELVES?

I was not taught social emotional coping skills. My generation was taught to “suck it up”, “deal with it” and if I struggled in my family, which often I did, I was mocked, made fun of and called “sensitive”- not in a good way, or my sister’s loving nickname for me, “Chicken.” I laugh lightheartedly at being called chicken. I smile through the jokes, because that is how I learned to cope.

I learned at a very early age that my feelings and my emotions were not valid. My thoughts were not important. We were to sit and be polite when my parents had their parties or gatherings with friends. “Speak only when spoken to.”

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THE FIRST SILENCING

In one of my last posts, I mentioned my college English teacher my freshman year. I call her “Miss Lead”. She was not the most terrifying teacher I have ever had. I went to Catholic school for goodness sake. I know how to jump in line with the snap of a ruler on my desk, I know the tug of a nuns hands ripping at my hair because I moved them out of the way to see the black board, I have been whacked with a chalk board eraser for daydreaming in history class, I had bruises from Sr. Rachel for days when she poked me in the arm for missing the first few confirmation classes because we were on vacation.

Miss Lead was not strict, she was a sad shell of a teacher that had lost her hope and wanted to drain every ounce of it from the students who passed through her doors. This “teacher” did not give constructive criticism. She inhibited my ability to trust myself and my capabilities as a creative, and that I had not experienced before.

Yet, there I was, the first time away from home, in the real world, and I was being told that I was not creative. So I slept in instead of going to class. And that was my first D in English ever. When I tell you it took me about 20 years to start sharing my work again, I am not kidding. She was the person who fed my negative critic for a very long time. Looking back, I wish I knew not to give her so much power for so long. But I did.

WHEN I LOST MY STRENGTH TO WRITE

I loved my father. So very much. He was from another time. He was charismatic and funny and could be both very likable and terrifying. When he sunbathed in his European swim suite, he reminded me of a Seal. Most of the time, the way his black curly hair flew up and away from the top of his head he reminded me of a Koala. He was extremely handsome. In his heyday he looked like a movie star.

He did have his struggles and vices. He was an alcoholic but he loved my sisters and I. I think he had a way of making each of us girls feel special. He was very hard on my brothers. But me, I always felt unique to him. He called me his movie star and his writer. I would write puppet shows and perform them for him, and my mom, my siblings rarely showed up. Sometimes he would have me read something at the table on special occasions. He tried to talk me into getting an English degree as a back up to my Theater degree when I went to college, but I was stubborn and didn’t listen.

The day my father died, I was the only one of my siblings that talked to him. It was a longer conversation than what I was used to. He had early onset Alzheimers and his conversations were either confusing or were short and comprised basic subjects like the weather.

This particular day, he was coherent. He was “awake”. He listed off all of my brothers and sisters, asking how they were, and giving thoughts and advice on them. He asked about my then, fiancé, now husband Kevin… “He’s smart. Stop giving him such a hard time. He’s good for you, and loves you.” I thought it was an odd conversation at the time. But it made me happy. I actually thought his pills were working.

My mother also said what a nice day they had. They spent the whole day together. Went to lunch. Enjoyed each others company. That night, she went to make some tea, while he went to take a shower. When she came back into the bedroom, he was collapsed on the ground dead, heart attack. But both her and I both believe he knew it was his last day.

When I got the call from my brother that night, my world collapsed. I couldn’t plan my wedding. I stopped acting. I stopped writing. I was depressed. The one person who always saw me as special was gone. Now I just exist.

Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash

THE THIRD TIME -IT SINKS IN

It took a long time for me to put myself back together. After four years of failing to pull the trigger on a ceremony, we eloped. And it was perfect.

I have only done a handful of acting projects with friends since my dad passed. It does not bring me the same joy as it used to. Acting requires another level of delving into feelings and keeping them at the surface that is not conducive to me living a happy and healthy life.

Writing- after my father passed, I found a stack of old notebooks of mine full of ramblings and poetry. I threw them out when I went to college. My father saved them from the garbage. One of his “crazy” antics as he aged was to go through the garbage and pull things out that he thought was valuable. Most of the time it was embarrassing, going through the garbage to retrieve a used ziplock bag, that he would wash and save to reuse. Or old magazines that he piled up in a corner of the kitchen in the area he claimed for his own. I had thought that part of it was from growing up in Poland during WW2. Not having more than a scrap of bread for dinner some nights. But then, finding this treasure trove of old cards from me and notebooks, meant the world.

All these years later what was once garbage to me is sitting in their own special drawer in my writing room.

I cannot exactly place that moment when I needed to start writing again. Part of it was time. Part of it was a story that began to brew in me. I wanted to combine my love for writing and movies. I had actually always said I would, but the structure to me was terrifying.

Baby steps.

I enrolled in a writing shorts class at the community college. It was fun and interesting. I turned my idea into a short. I learned structure and plot. This part of me that had been unlocked was taking over my soul and helping me heal. This is why when people ask me why I write, I usually respond with, “it is my therapy.”

I then enrolled in UCLA Writers Extension. I learned story and plot and what was working and what was not. And I had a story, not one hundred percent biopic, but a blend between my current situation, a woman desperately trying to get pregnant and my past life, a daughter of a man losing his mind to alzheimers.

My logline: While caring for her father with Alzheimer’s, a woman’s frantic mission to get pregnant turns into a darkly funny spiral of family, fertility, and be careful what you wish for.

My logline: While caring for her father with Alzheimer’s, a woman’s frantic mission to get pregnant spirals into a darkly funny collision of family drama, fertility struggles, and the unexpected costs of getting what you want.

It was my first feature. And will probably never see the light of day. But it was a story I needed to write. I was proud of it, albeit too close to it. As in any writing class people comment on the work. Usually: what they liked, what didn’t make sense, what needs clarification. Mind you also, this is online. It was new to me, my first online course. So the notes others give are written.

There were some very talented writers in this group. From the first class it took all may nerve to post my pages. To tell “Miss Lead” on my shoulder to take a hike. But my fingers were moving and my inner voice was strong, I had a story to tell. There was one class mate who was very talented, and cocky. The world he created pulled me right in. I was captivated. Every week I was excited to read his pages. He had talent. This story was magical and amazing and I was feeding off of every plot twist. This writer did not appreciate my story as much, nor did he have anything complimentary to say of any of our other classmates.

Two weeks before the course ended, I put up the turning point scene, which was partially taken from a real life event with my Babcia when she had Alzheimers, moshed up with one of my dad’s drunken rampages where he slammed almost every cupboard in my mother’s counter breaking nearly every dish, and ending with the neighbors calling the police.

The older writers in the class had obviously had experience with dementia, Alzheimers, caring for loved ones and found the scene relatable. The young writer, who, aside from their cocky attitude and disagreements with the instructor when given notes, was… harsh, cruel, unkind. He called it cliche, something that he has seen time and time again, it was boring and wearisom. The instructor reminded us to stick to what works and what didn’t, but the damage was done I re-read his notes over and over and over again. I analyzed it. I sat with it and let it sink in. I finished that class and was seriously considering not enrolling for the next round. Why would I? I put my self out there and I get hurt.

THEN IT HIT ME…

That was his opinion. Just like Miss Lead had her opinion. Not everyone is going to like me. I am not chicken nuggets. I am not pizza. I am my own entree! The third time was my breaking point. I am moving forward. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. If you have something to constructive to add, I am all ears and if you just want to put me or others like me down to silence us, your words will not harm me. My voice is clear and not going anywhere.