Finally Writing
Doing the work and writing the things… and why it took me so long to get here
When I write, the words pour out, perhaps from my subconscious? But only if I stop worrying about style, grammar and spelling. As a perfectionist, that’s hard. My nitpicking breaks the trance.
Imposter Syndrome
Today, I wanted to write, but didn’t have a topic in mind.
I keep a long list of post ideas, but I don’t usually need it; I find a spark elsewhere. I read through the list, and the last entry was ‘Writing Inadequacies’.
Over the last 9 years, on and off, I’ve been ‘trying to write’. I’ve started a few blogs, but couldn’t sustain writing in the niches I chose, and lost my enthusiasm after creating pretty websites with no content.
My problem: I thought I had to be an expert before I had permission to share my thoughts. I tried writing about music, singing, health and wellness. I felt like a fraud.
Disconnect
I had my own stories to share, but I couldn’t make sense of them. I started a Medium account and wrote a few poems. The truth is, I’m not into poetry. It was a way to vent emotions. I’d compose them mentally, in a dark room, waiting for the baby to fall asleep, then repeat them endlessly until I could slip out and scribble them down.
I tried writing some autobiographical stories, but found it difficult. I did the whole, read and comment to engage and grow, but it felt inauthentic. I didn’t know what I wanted to read, what type of stories I related to; I didn’t know who my people were.
Crisis Point
I was swirling in a sea of confusion, surrounded by grief about my son’s Down Syndrome diagnosis. I was worn out, losing several executive functioning skills. I was reeling from past traumas.
My internal dialogue told me I wasn’t good enough, hadn’t achieved enough, and I must do more. But I couldn’t do more, so I felt like a failure. I kept starting new things, then quitting from sheer exhaustion.
By now, I recognise this as the cyclical nature of autistic burnout. It’s been present my whole life, and sped up exponentially in the last 6 years, as the weight of my burden increased. Following the birth of Little One in 2020, until very recently, I was in permanent burnout. My threshold is lower now; it’s easier than ever to fall back in.
Something was missing from the picture. I stopped writing for three whole years.
Break Through
Discovering that I’m AuDHD (read about that here) gave me a fresh perspective on my past. I started to make sense of stories that had confused me. It was the key to clarity I’d been looking for.
I’m trying to live a life that honours my neurodivergence, my need to heal, and my caring responsibilities. Paid employment isn’t an option. I asked ChatGPT for ideas to create an earning opportunity from home (read about that here), and writing appeared over and over. Initially, I was apprehensive, given my previous experiences, but I came around to the idea.
Finally Writing
After some coaching and persuasion, I finally started this account.
I don’t need to be an expert at anything; I can just write. They’re my stories. But guess what? I finally feel like an expert on my existence. I couldn’t even master that before. Writing is processing life.
I’ve found my people. I don’t write advice, I write for connection and to be relatable. I hope people read my words and feel seen. Start a conversation. Notice something in themselves. That’s how I feel when I read the work of some fantastic writers here - I’ve had so many ‘aha’ moments.
It feels authentic and right. I haven’t felt that way about anything else I’ve created.
I’ll just be here, writing one story at a time.
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HOLY CRAP. I recognize myself in all this. From this: "I’ve started a few blogs, but couldn’t sustain writing in the niches I chose, and lost my enthusiasm after creating pretty websites with no content." To this: "But guess what? I finally feel like an expert on my existence. I couldn’t even master that before. Writing is processing life."
I've gone through the same pattern! For decades, I'd create a fancy wrapper as a place to launch content and then end there. Crickets; just a blank mind mirroring a blank screen. Culminating in the present phase where all these thoughts are spilling out into writing and I couldn't cork the bottle if I tried.
Even though it sounds a bit mystical, I chalk it up to "finding" myself through diagnosis. But that still doesn't entirely convince me, because "autism" is as much a construct (a useful one albeit) as anything else. How could having something to say be so dependent on reframing the way I see myself? Yet it does seem the two are linked.
One theory I have is that my prior writing efforts were all a kind of masking -- I was trying to mimic what I saw others doing. Now I'm letting my own instincts and thoughts take the wheel. Maybe there's a more indirect connection to autism. My diagnosis finally let me accept myself (instead of thinking there was something wrong with me, as I always had before). In so doing, I strengthened my connection to myself, separate from outside noise.
Thanks for providing a place to reflect on all this. :)
"Writing is processing life." how true is this?
I relate to some of the things you mentioned at the beginning. I always felt like I couldn't share anything I wrote because it had to be perfect from conception to finishing.
I'm happy to read about how you got here and happy to read this.
Thanks for sharing. 😊