Email Blast From the Past
Yesterday, I woke up to find an old post from my blog in my email inbox. It was a strange occurrence, but I thought that it must be a fluke. I deleted the email and went to work, continuing to go about my day.
My mom texted me, once I was already at work. She had a received a different post from the past in her email. This was growing more odd.
I checked my email again and found several old posts waiting for me. Some were years old.
I texted my web designer.
He checked forums, performed a fix and wished me a good day before my stomach had time to fully drop.
One of the interesting things about being a writer is that I’m always making connections in my head, often thinking about how I will write about what is happening to me, trying to make meaning, even where there doesn’t seem to be any.
I am that person writing the story of a breakup in my head even when it’s happening.
It didn’t surprise me, then, that I saw more than just a frustrating web problem. I saw a little bit of my life.
You see, lately I’ve been working on a writing project that is requiring me to go back in time. I’m plumbing depths that I’ve avoided, or glossed over in the past. In some ways this is really good. I’m facing down my demons, learning to look my ghosts in the eye.
But it’s painful.
Even though I’ll be focusing on one event, trying to write about it, allowing myself to remember words spoken and small details I’d almost forgotten, wading into that event invariably brings up others, unbidden. I’ll write about one angry word and find myself immersed in them, seeing the connections between them for the first time, even as I weep.
I write about a love story gone wrong, my heart breaking all over again, and other heartbreaks rise up to meet that one, like long-lost friends.
Like these blog posts from yesterday, they are loosely connected, part of my past, but they are a little jarring, a little strange to see again after all these years.
Thankfully, I have writer friends who don’t think I’m crazy, people who know what it is to weep over words you yourself are producing. Like my web designer, they have responded quickly, though they can’t fix it, just hold me suspended in their luminous words, pointing out bits of light as they pass.
Through their words, they are providing safe spaces to dwell when safety seems altogether too scarce.
They cannot stop the past from careening into my path, but they do stand with me, when it does.
(If you got one or more strange posts from me yesterday, I apologize. Unless it was just what you needed to hear, in which case, you’re welcome. If you didn’t get any, it’s likely because you haven’t subscribed, which you will probably want to do now. You never know when you’ll get a secret message from the past.)