SHORT ESSAY – REFLECTION
I never dreamed I had what it took to become a writer. It was more than the usual self-doubt, more like an evaluation of my skills. My mastery of the language was smattering at best. Writing for myself was the only way to feel the joy I desperately desired. My sketches were rudimentary, but I still enjoyed the process occasionally. However, writing is the thing that gets my motor running, as they say. Even after becoming a widower, I kept writing; I began my first novel within the first month. Over the next three years, I took loss after loss. Though wretched like a tsunami with no quarter, I continued to write.
Despite all this tragedy, I created a poetry show and taught workshops about writing poetry. In many ways, my writing career had begun to take off. Then one day, I felt a little off. It felt different than previous experiences of this sort, so I went to the doctor. I was fully prepared to be told I was suffering from several underlining symptoms of my PTSD. It’s peculiar how once you have a diagnosis of something, it becomes the cause of EVERYTHING that ails you. However, today was different; the physician stated
“although unlikely, but it is probable.”
Really, bro? This is how you’re going to start things off? I screamed in my head but gave a tempered response, “I see; when will the test results return?”
A couple days later, I got the news. A confirmation of something I already knew to be true. The doctor had a lot to say, but the only thing I heard was
~You have Cancer~
He was still talking. Still, I heard nothing. Then, my once-decent vocabulary was reduced to one-syllable words.
“Well damn!”
“Fuck!”
“Okay, Okay”
“Fuck!”
The doctor finally stopped talking and ended the call. There was a numbness that took hold, and I can’t quite remember feeling much after that. It seemed as if this feeling was my permanent state for the next couple of years. Even through everything, I was just numb. I befriended people I would never have and shared things usually kept private.
It was as if I didn’t recognize myself. It was me talking to these strangers and sharing these private things. Something was wrong. It wasn’t just me, for I share the wisdom of their secrets in the lines I write. As if it is my duty or something I can’t quite name or describe, to share what is learned in the space between clarity and confusion.
Even now, years later, I can’t tell what I’ve learned. Perhaps, as I write these lines and others like them, lessons will become clear. It took me years to talk about my experience, years to write, and years to share.
I could talk about this experience forever; perhaps I will share more one day. However, for now, I’ll share my feelings about the news that day. Tell you how it stripped away my courage. Slowly tearing away the essence of my existence. I barely wrote a word after that. Somehow, I felt I’d had this coming. I deserved this fate.
Somedays, I hear the echoes of the haunting memories of that man. I’d love to say I’ve shed its torment and walked around free. That wouldn’t be honest. It took me years to regain my courage. With a bit of luck, I can maintain it. We all know luck is all a person needs if their courage holds.
~thank you for reading~
Memoirs of Madness 