~There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. -Ernest Hemingway~

My escapism comes in many forms- Most have to do with CREATING; when I create to escape I can put my whole focus into forming my desired object. Whether it’s a day dream, an art project or a poem, I can leave everything behind. I don’t have to think about reality (that, my psychology students, is what shrinks refer to as 'hyperfocus'). Of course if I`m feeling especially lazy my escapism results in watching The Wire for 8 straight hours, or reading the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in a week. Small detail worth noting: When I am done a series (TV, movie or book) I actually go through a depression because I am mourning the loss of the characters and the world they existed in. I’m a geek. I know.

Before I matured into adulthood, escapism was a defense mechanism which I didn’t begrudge myself. I did what I had to too survive. But as I grew up, I realized that most of my escapist activities weren’t fair to the ones I loved if it meant distancing myself. So for example, early in our marriage, when I would get too overwhelmed with some sort of hardship, my husband would watch as I vacated reality. As someone who has some pretty intense abandonment issues, this was akin to torture for him. We eventually resolved this issue, but my first instinct to adversity is to mentally turtle, and it`s still something I struggle with and will for the rest of my life. I do realize that CREATING something can be therapeutic, but if it takes me away from my loved ones and my responsibilities then it can be harmful. I need to participate in life. My loved ones need me to participate with them.

One of my favorite forms of escapism is writing. I started writing when I was 5. I don't know how I was writing that early. I remember being 3 or 4, lying on the living room floor with my mom, the newspaper stretched under us, and I watched her read the tiny little news print. I recall looking at the letters and they looked to me like minute little lines and circles. I remember marveling at how one could gain any information from such small boring little squiggles. The next memory I have of words was when I was 5, where I was suddenly writing. I obviously knew my alphabet and I remember writing stories in my little note books (you know the ones with the lines on the bottom and blank page for drawing on the top). I know I didn’t know how to read yet (that came in when I was 6) But I knew what I wanted to say and sounded out the words I wanted to write. When I look back at those stories (thanks mom for keeping those for me) if I read the letters purely phonetically I can sort of follow along with the narrative, but I remember at the time, being completely absorbed in my land of make believe.

I filled journal after journal as a teenager. My fantasies were so real I thought I should write some of them down. You know, make a fortune as a famous writer. So I started many novels and screen plays, I was quite the prodigy. But of course as any true ADHDer can tell you, none of these made it past the third chapter or the first act. I wrote A LOT of bad poetry (I also wrote an occasional good poem, which I probably will post on here every once in a while) I journaled my life and how I was feeling. Sometimes it’s interesting to go back and read some of those teenage angsty ramblings… Most of the time it is just horrifying to see how immature and self-absorbed I was… I mean I am still as self-absorbed as one can be when one is a stay at home mother to two toddlers and a baby.

But when I met my husband, for some reason my writing stopped. It’s like my dialogue had dried up. Rather, I know my dialogue was then directed at him. Poor man. I always say to him (rather accusingly and a bit piteously) "YOU married ME". Even though my oral spewing was then directed at him I know that I was editing what I had to say… Despite what you`ve been told, you can’t tell your soul mate every single thought that enters your brain. The endless nonsensical chatter that spins through my brain would make Andrew go crazy. Despite his passionate love for me, he would have to have me committed for my own good(and his).....(ok, mostly just his).

So writing as an escapist medium, ceased to exist. I watched a Sylvia Plath movie once and there was a quote that went something like this `once a woman gets married or turns 30, she stops writing.` I thought this was an actual quote so I googled researched for hours trying to find this Sylvia Plath quote. I couldn’t find it, so now I actually attribute that quote to Gwenyth Paltrow, or rather the writers of that movie. But I sort of believed it was true. Most of what teenagers (mostly of the female variety) anguishly write about is being crossed in love. So therefore when you find the ever elusive LOVE, you ceased to be anguishly inspired. I know a lot of people write about being happy. But I was too busy BEING happy(due to the love) for the first time in my life to actually write about, you know… being happy.

Recently, in the last few months, as my thoughts seemed to start spiraling, I started searching for an appropriate outlet. I figured banging my head against the wall or tearing my hair out wasn’t really setting a good example for my children. So once the meds kicked in and I began to see things straight I was inspired to start writing.

So here I am.