The art inside of me isn't something that I can control. I am writing on this platform because I believe web 3.0 is the way of the future, I can sense it. And I want to honor my love of it, I spend a lot of my time on social media right now. A heavy portion on TikTok. And I need to pivot my focus again. The comment section is packed, upwards of thousands -- conversations are being provoked by my amateur ramblings on the topic of my life.
I am used to being picked open, talked about, pondered over; it felt like a birthright instead of a curse at points. It's all about perspective. I write not for vengeance; even though that is how it seems at times I am sure, I've been told -- actually.
I have cut the veil at another source of understanding. I figured out the definitions and my untwisting and untangling of those. There are a lot of steps to verbalization and deconstruction that I am documenting. I am processing the ways in which words used in contexts that were coercive, manipulative in nature altered the outdoor landscape of my eyeballs due to this shift. As a child, I felt as if I was a sponge soaking up my environment for all it was worth. And there is value inside the darker experiences. I searching for joy in my journey now. It's such a beautiful transition.
I remember the darker days of my writings; where I felt aimless -- just attempting to validate my body and the pain I was in denial about; festering the wound that much further. I had to surrender and feel; ultimately, this would radically change me as a person. I had to sharpen my focus, I am a writer. This isn't about money; this isn't about fame, it's just me. I am doing what I had to...
...in order to turn on the faucet and write.
I'd write, even if I was wrong.
I'd write, not to be right.
I'd write to evaluate and understand.
I'd write because I was born to.
This is just my story, and I believe there is a ton of value inside of my perspective because of the changes that must be addressed inside of the mental health care system. And I want to stay in my lane as a writer, I am speaking of my direct, first-hand experiences inside of private mental health care institutions. And to learn how to do this is a process.
I have journals that I began in the middle of this blog. I have now increased the size to forty-five. I am on journal number forty-five; holy shit.
My writing, shows processing developing through language. Because that was how they altered my brain in the mannerisms that they did; it was what they were teaching. It was scary, it was so intense. My father turned against me, my mother walked away, claiming I was not worthy of empathetic consideration the moment they committed me. The last words I said to them were out of horror; "I'll be publishing this, when I publish the pages of my diary, this is the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, well this is at least interesting." I lived for the story, and now I will write the story.
I am going to come on here and begin journaling words, and I am going to lay out my understanding of the definition and digest the information. I think this is the step that is truly transformative, and eye-opening.
You see, I began journaling fully raw on here, and then I began using a journal to filter the blood a bit more; then there is a winter (no writing) time period before I rise again. This them I am organizing the belief structures I once formed from the way that I personally understood terminology, basic English words that were twisted in order to steal from my energies. I see this as beneficial in some ways now. There is such power in wording, and in how you say something, in the non-verbal behavior that is exhibited; what was programmed into this mind of mine? What an honor to be able to dissect this? I think these thoughts and this change are a basic indicator of an "internal dawn".
I am rebuilding the tower, the home of the magician (or emperor) and the high priestess. This tower is made inside the mind of bricks -- of words.
You see, it was exciting when the tower collapsed -- there was a ton of material that just did not exist before; I was not using my full canvas and abilities to my advantage because of how this would hurt my parents. I did not want them to be a part of my story as they desperately did. And this is not personal, they held me against my will -- without due process, I felt so powerless to their power trip. If this was the 1950s, I would have been lobotomized. My father even remarked how he took the bait hook, line, and sinker saying, "We were told that this type of treatment is like brain surgery at the mayo clinic." Was that supposed to make me feel better? Was brain surgery the option in this scenario? He called me mad while installing sixteen silver fillings.
One cannot talk about institutionalization or juvenile delinquency without talking about the home environment. And that was precisely the problem in therapy, my parent's perfect intentions outweighed the actual impact of their rules on my life. It was like -- the more rules the better.
Also, they refused to treat me with respect. Why was I entitled to kiss the ground they walked on. I think this was part of the problem as well. They refused to listen to suggestions that required them to feel guilt or shame. They could not be seen as being in error if they believed they were doing good. My mother had this desire to want to be seen as this great servant of god, and she could not see that she herself was some Pharisees or Sadducees. Looking at me as a rule-breaker, or as someone with a moral deficiency is part of the problem. I was judged for my reaction to the trauma when this felt biological. There was zero understanding of the human psyche, even as they were prescribing and installing words twisted to fit their agenda.
I think I am going, to begin with, respect -- write soon.
Love,
@laurabell
P.S. I'd like to begin doing little short ten-minute blog posts with freewriting on words and the contextual meanings, also posting book reviews and other various musings that I am interested in. I can see myself filtering down more "raw material" from my subconscious, that I am attempting to make conscious. Eventually, I'd like to have and own this process privately; however -- I cannot shake how convicted (by my own higher power) I feel to publish my memoir using as many words as possible and blogging throughout the process.
What do I want out of this? Well, I want to learn more about crypto, and truly -- I want to invest my time here a bit more consuming content and put my focus on this community of writers and artists; healers? There is no natural medicine that can replace feeling one's emotions, there is no herb that ceases the emotional life -- unless one wishes to exit this plane. And I have a purpose. I feel that purpose booming inside again like I once felt when I kept a diary as a young child.
This is transformation, this is power. There is power in my fingertips; just as there is power in yours. I truly am grateful to be back and active again. It feels like new life, fresh air to a sacred account of my life's spectacular experiences that I've had thus far. Thank you for the honor of allowing me to write here, thank you for allowing me to process and carve out space for me.
I finally feel grateful to have had tragedy. Processing it had opened my eyes. I think this is the step that I had been looking for in previous entries :)