About 30 years ago, I worked in ICU as a licensed practical nurse. I enjoyed working there, but my main desire aspiration was to become a writer. I had no idea how to do this. I remember repositioning a patient with an RN back then, whose name was Diane. We were talking and I happened to mention my dream, and Diane said to me, " You can't do that"? "Why not?", I asked. "That's only for rich white people..." she answered.
I was stunned. And angry... for years.
...But, I actually believed what she said. And did not wholeheartedly try to pursue a writing career. I decided that I would try to go into medicine. But, sabotaged that aspiration also, by getting married and pregnant and bending under the thumb of a husband who was controlling, ambitious, competitive and also aspired to go into medicine.
When I look back then, I can't believe how naive and easily discouraged I was. I could look back and talk about how prejudiced Diane was, but it really wouldn't matter. I don't think that she was as prejudiced as she was ignorant of many things, (she had made other racial comments that left my mouth hanging open). I believe that she really believed what she said, I could say that's too bad. But what's really too bad is that I didn't have enough love for myself to ignore her.
She wasn't the only one who made that statement. I'd heard it and read it. I had been in therapy for a few years prior to meeting Diane and "the others". And my therapist discouraged my pursuing a career in writing. I also, allowed my husband to squish my desire to write. What's more important, it really seemed surreal to me. I didn't know exactly what a writer did, and I had no direction as far as my purpose or genre.
Much of my writing then was narrowly limited to angry rants about my family and how my mother treated me or how I felt about my grandmother... Or situations in my family. And I was afraid at that time of criticism from my mother, as she would get hold of my journals and express outrage at my points of view about certain things.
In spite of all the adverse events in my life, and negative points of view and opinions coming from every direction that I turned, I could not extinguish the desire to write. I tried to squish it, burn it, sit on it, chew it, run over it, throw it in front of speeding trucks and trains, give it to someone else, tear it to shreds, but it remains, now even stronger than it did when I was younger. And it has nothing to do with fortune or fame. It lingers and is as much a part of me as the beat of my heart.
The desire to write is a vital part of me, like my kidneys or liver. If you can be born with a dream, writing came through the birth canal with me, like having a twin.
When I would not write it rattled it's chains relentlessly like an angry ghost, and kept me awake at night. I have no choice but to honor it. It won't allow me to ignore it.
I've discovered that writing is a dream that I only thought was possible. I'm not in Kansas anymore...
What are your impossible dreams? Do you honor them?
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