Writing out the Codependency

I wanted to be a writer since I knew what writing was. That was all I wanted to do with my life. R.L. Stine once said that he found a typewriter when he was nine years old and from that point on just spent all of his time writing. His parents told him to go out and play, and he said, “Why would I want to do that? This is what I want.”

The thing about writing is that is possesses your soul. It is like a codependent relationship. You think about it all the time. You want to spend all your time with it. When you’re together nothing else matters. Of course, some days you might fight, or just be prickly with each other, but it’s always glorious. It’s always worth it.

It’s like the all the romance movie cliches: “Soul mates.” “Two halves of a heart.” “We spent all our lives trying to find each other.” “Fireworks.” “Magic.” “Connection.”

I spent most of my life writing, but having such a passionate love of something makes other people uncomfortable. That’s where the saying: “don’t quit your day job” came from. I lacked R.L. Stine’s confidence. I believed those naysayers. I went out in the sunshine and played even when I would rather be inside, alone, writing. (God, it’s magical.) I tried finding a backup plan that measured up to the glorious spot that writing filled in my life. I fought my desire to write like it was an addiction. As a teenager I counted how many days I could go without writing until I gave in to temptation. (Three days was my personal best.)

And then, and then, I don’t know what happened. I found love? I don’t know, but somewhere along the line, I found out that obsessing over guys was a great distraction from writing. I no longer obsessed over writing. I no longer felt like I had to count the days until I wrote again. I felt much more normal. So I continued obsessing over guys.

Even with all the obsession, I avoided any serious dating until I was 28. When I got married at 30, all writing immediately went out the window, and what I believed would make me ultimately happy, made me more depressed than ever. (There are probably lots of reasons behind this depression, but this narrative fits this blog so we’ll go with it.)

For the next 13 years I had unshakeable, devestating depression. And then I started dating Charles. The magic of Charles was that he didn’t need or expect me to contact him constantly. He didn’t need a “Sleep tight” text before bed and a “Good morning, handsome” every morning. And sometimes I messaged him and he took a day or two to respond. This was earth shattering. Didn’t he like me? Was our relationship over? Did he not care? Was he punishing me? Did he think I didn’t like him?

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I got depressed, obsessed, possessed. I groveled. I withered. I paced. I pulled out my hair. I vacilated between: “I’m so unloveable, no one will ever love me” and “Fuck him! I never wanted him anyway”. And then he sends a sweet text asking how my day was and telling me he misses me and I melt and also feel depressed and strange, wondering what the fuck is going on.

So Charles isn’t obsessing over me, but he likes me and he wants to continue our relationship. He doesn’t need constant texts reassuring him that I love him, and come to think of it, that’s just the relationship I’ve always wanted. But that’s the strange and difficult thing, he isn’t filling the role of “distracting obsessive figure in my life”.

So what was I supposed to do? I wandered around listless and numb for a few weeks, and then one day I found myself on my laptop, my long lost love. Good God! It was all the romcom cliches all over again. I was flying!

This time I’m not looking for a day job. I’m not treating my writing like an addiction I need to quit. I’m not feeling guilty about the dishes or the kids on screens. I’m just enjoying being in love again.