Stripping Down

By Rachel Sokol/Greenwich Village Gazette

ne of the greatest works of literature to ever grace through America was Harper Lee’s famed novel, To Kill a Mockingbird. After Americans got over the initial shock that Harper Lee was a woman (The novel was published in 1960)—it was widely thought that Harper Lee was male—Ms. Lee lived a life in seclusion. All we know now is that Ms. Lee lives somewhere in New York and was close friends with writer Truman Capote. But Ms. Lee’s life has been insanely private, even after Oprah named "To Kill a Mockingbird," her favorite book-club book.

But that was the way Lee wanted it. She wrote the great American novel about racism, and gave few interview requests afterward; seeking the desire to live in secrecy. In one rare interview she gave with a publisher, he asked Ms. Lee why she only wrote one novel. To which Ms. Lee gave a reply of brilliance and simplicity:

"I said all I needed to say."

It’s been over a year since I have written anything for "The Greenwich Village Gazette." I used to submit to this website on a frequent basis—confiding in readers about my trademark clumsiness, my love of tourists, my relationship woes and my fear of bugs and men who hoch spit-loogies. I was funny and quirky and cutesy.

But then—I stopped. One day, I just stopped writing about myself. Do people give a shit about me? The answer that poured into my mind was NO. Like Harper Lee—I guess I didn’t really have anything to say. I had no problem writing about other people, professionally—but when it came down to myself, I had nothing to say. But UNLIKE Harper Lee, I DID have to say more. I just couldn’t.

I was unhappy with myself. The one thing in my life that I ever truly felt confident about, was my writing. I remember my first grade teacher telling my mother that I was going to be a writer, because I was the only kid who paid attention during ‘storytime.’ Because I could pronounce my vocabulary words with good diction. Because a bookstore made me feel safe. And as I walked down the path of the real world, writing seemed to be my only safe haven—the one zone I could tap into that felt safe and loving and familiar.

But I lost it. Poof. Gone. Finito. I was in my mid-twenties and something in my brain told me I was a social and professional failure. Writing used to give me comfort, and it suddenly became my biggest fear—my safe haven wrecked. So, I stopped writing for myself. I stopped trying to write a novel. I stopped pitching story ideas to editors. I had lots of trouble sleeping at night. I had a depleted bank account. I was lonely. I just gave up.

And everything started bubbling up in my head. I jokingly call it "brain diarrhea." I just put my pen down. My laptop away. I gave up. I didn’t want to write anymore. I didn’t want to read anymore because I was convinced I would never be as good as other writers. I wasn’t good enough. And every day, for a very long time, I told myself this. In fact, in a way, I still do. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink coffee, I don’t bite my nails but I was addicted to putting myself down, constantly; my confidence sucked out with a vacuum cleaner.

I actually became one of those people who gave up on my dream—something I frowned upon in the past. And I—someone who fought so hard to accomplish so much—just surrendered to myself. I gave up my personal creativity. And that made me feel even worse. One day, I told myself I was a horrible writer. A horrible person. A horrible daughter. A horrible girlfriend. A horrible sister. A horrible friend. It’s amazing how powerful the brain is when you tell yourself you are not good enough. Suddenly, like lined-up dominos, everything falls down. My confidence hit the floor like an anvil in a Looney Tunes cartoon. I wanted to crawl under my bed and vanish—all because I thought I was a bad writer. I wish I could say I’m being dramatic—but I’m not.

And because it’s so much easier to believe yourself than to believe someone else—I was convinced I was just overall, horrible. And this intense worry made me a victim of hate. I hated myself. I hated myself for giving up on writing. I hated myself for thinking I was horrible at everything. I hated waking up in the morning and hating myself when a teeny-tiny part of me knew I had something—or maybe someone?—to live for. Hey--Cinderella was always my favorite fairytale for a reason.

After months of feeling totally sorry for myself and truly thinking I was the worst writer/person on this planet, I realized that my anxiety and self-pity was starting to push away people I truly loved. It reached a point where I thought, I’m just not good enough to even have friends or anyone like me. And thinking this actually hurt those who did care. And in that self-manifestation, came confession. I was being selfish. In taking myself away from others, and using my low self-esteem as a wall to protect myself from rejection. I rejected myself, my hobbies, and my life. I was taking myself away from a world that needed me….for something. I wanted a creative miracle. I was taking myself away from myself—and I needed myself the most. And as Mick Jagger once said…it’s OK to let yourself go…as long as you can get yourself back.

I wanted the world to feel sorry for me—and that’s not the right way to go away life. And I did not want to lose people I loved so much. I cared and loved my friends and family too much to crumble into oblivion.

It has not been easy, but I am slowly trying to rebuild myself. I am grateful to have a roof over my head, when people down south lost so much in the Hurricanes. Every day for me has been a heavy struggle to win back a trust in myself and a trust from others. I have very slowly been letting my literary juices drip once again. I felt accomplished when last week I read a novel in one long, lazy sitting—and truly focused on the story--devouring every word, every comma, every period. It was so minor, but I was so proud. I still have it, I thought. I can still sit down and immerse myself in a book for one entire afternoon and enjoy it. That part of me was still there, inside, somewhere, like a small inner light telling me it’s okay if the lights go out—there’s always the moonlight to guide you.

My goals now are to gradually repair and restore personal and professional relationships that were damaged by my self-hate. My goals now are to write again for pleasure and not feel guilty that I don’t make more money. My goals are to tell myself that failures can be successes. And I am back on The Gazette to give this (personal) writing thing another shot. Because we all deserve a second chance.

I do have back the confidence to tell my story, which is why I am reminding my readers to not strive for perfection. To not worry so much. To live a life where everyday a breeze flows through your hair. It is so easy to get lost in a cloud of emptiness, worthlessness and loneliness. If you ever feel this way, I am here for you. I’m not going anywhere this time. I promise.

So, with a deep breath and my toe grazing the top of the water, I am making a comeback in writing. Well—I’m trying. Maybe one of you readers will be my moonlight; maybe I need to find my own. Maybe I already found it.

Wherever my future takes me, I am ready for it…bruised, but stronger. It won’t be easy to accept myself and be OK with professional self, but I am going to try. Because the wounds may heal…but the scar remains.

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