A funny thing happened on the way to the hormone treatment . . .
Let’s back that up just a little bit, because most of this happened long before I started hormones, long before I started writing. Actually, it started when I was a kid. I was what you’d say, “emotional.” That’s what parents say when you cry a lot. And I used to cry a lot. Like all the time. Stub my toe? I’d cry. Didn’t like what I was wearing? I’d cry. Weather changed? I’d cry. Though I loved the rain. I loved to take walks in the rain, because it was so relaxing . . .
There are some who’d read that and say, “Wow! Sounds just like a girl.” Duh. You’re catching on, aren’t you? Yeah, that was one of those things, back when I was about seven or eight, when I realized that, in the immortal words of Micheal Jackson, I’m not like the other boys. It used to drive my parents nuts. My father hatted it, and my mother–well, she didn’t like it, either, and used to yell at me all the time to stop “acting like a girl.” And, hey: it worked! Oh, wait . . .
The upside of all this marvelous treatment was a lot of depression and teaching myself to keep my emotions locked down. Because one never knew when I might just bust loose with a laugh or a sob or a smile or a cry. This was the sort of hell I went through in high school, and then later on in adult life.
I got to the point where I was “emotionally unavailable,” which is another way of saying I just shut everything down. And because of that, I was always pairing up with people who were either the same way–or, as a person once pointed out, a lot like my mother in that they were critical of everything I did. I was not good with relationship; I was not good with telling people how I felt. To a certain extent I’m still like that in that I’m a private person–says the blogger spilling this all out at six-thirty AM.
About 2011 this all started changing. Why? Because I decided to start talking about my “secret” and I finally came out to a friend. And they didn’t run away. Another thing was happening then: I was getting in touch with my emotions once again, which was a double-edge sword, because while it’s easy to talk of love and happiness, you can also fall into the pit next door which is sadness and pain. But it’s all worth it, because, in the end, you’re feeling again. You’re not some semi-dead hunk of flesh sitting in front of a computer waiting for the end to arrive sooner than later. You’re alive; you’re writing again.
That’s really what opened up my writing: being able to feel. You can only pretend to write about people in relationships with other people for so long and not feel what that’s like before you understand that what’s coming out of you are words devoid of passion. They are dead, just like the person writing them.
I’ve had people tell me that they love the romance developing between Annie and Kerry. I’ve already said it’s a grand one, and it’s one that will build in time. Last night I was thinking of a scene for Act Three, and while I realized that some people who’d read it would think, “Are you crazy to say this?” I don’t think it’s strange at all. It’s sweet, it’s touching–and at the same time, it’s torturing a person who is deeply in love. Because it’s what happens sometimes. And why are they tortured? Because they’re afraid they’re pulling someone all the way into their love in a way they might not want.
I’ve come to realize over the last week or so that my emotional responses are changing again. They’re not going away: oh, no. They’re dialing up; they’re getting more intense. They’re also becoming what I might call a bit more personal and even maternal. The one thing I have noticed, and it’s something I confirmed through research–my stress levels are not defined by my job or by money: they’re defined by my relationships. Or lack there of if you wanna put it that way. But the thing that make me the most loopy these days is love. I do feel it: for my characters and for myself. You can blame it on the demon lady hormones taking over my body.
My therapist says I’m tortured–probably just like a certain person in a monster of a novel I’m writing. I’m not as bad as that, but I will admit to crying before falling asleep, and crying as I was getting up? Why? Because I love someone. They mean the world to me. They are the person I would die for if the zombies were coming and she needed saving.
But they are not with me, not at the moment.
Will that happen?
You have to wait and see. You never know what will happen tomorrow.