black box

"How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die?  A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa.  How could I compete with that sort of thing?"
-Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

I've realized that my life has always been limited in one way or another.  My parents limited my world by never taking me anywhere.  I limited myself socially by never going anywhere.  I sat at home and ate and got fat, which ruined my confidence.  The lack of confidence caused me to run away from people and their judgments.  I don't drink.  I don't smoke.  I don't party.  I don't eat meat.  I don't eat vegetables.  I don't swear (much).  I don't have sex (with others).  I'm from a small town, thus nowhere to go and nothing to do.  I don't have a girlfriend.  I don't have a best friend.  I only have acquaintances and they have already moved on to other locations.  I work a stifling job and am forced to interact with stifling people.  I don't socialize or metabolize.  I simply fill a slot on this earth.

It's the world that grabs me by its mechanical hand and puts me in the shower, puts me in my job, puts me in the seat of my chair, puts me in front of people and forces me to open my mouth and speak.  I don't go willingly.  My will is in my bed.  It's in a good book.  It's in sleep and food and the small part of my brain unaffected by cynicism and disease.  It wriggles its way into the tucked away part that can still fathom hope and what happiness might feel like one day.

I am limited.  My life situation limited me.  My parents/friends/enemies limited me.  I limited myself.   I'm trapped in my own black box and everyone has had a hand in constructing it.  And it's devastating as a writer and as a person to feel so enclosed.

I've joked that I should fall in love and break someone's heart or have my heart broken just to have a story to write.  I say that I should get drunk just to see what it feels like or do something naughty to feel the thrill of breaking rules, engage in behavior that forces the blood to rush faster, the heart to beat faster, the surge of excitement and adrenaline.  I should travel and meet and kiss people and give and take and be a real person.  Or at least emulate a real person.  I'd like to think the benefits would be two-fold:  I'd have personal experience and material for stories.

The great obstacle is actually obtaining that experience.  I've developed a Stockholm Syndrome of sorts from being locked inside this black box.  It's suffocating and soothing all at the same time because I don't know any different.  I know that I don't like it but I also know that I have a fear of what else is out there.  I'm terrified of the outside world.  I'm terrified of the experience because I might not like what I find outside my uncomfortably comfortable box.  I'm terrified that I might not be good enough for the world, that I might not be good enough for the people of the world.  I peer through the cracks of the black box but the world outside is too bright and daunting so I shrink back into the blackness.

I've heard some say "write what you know" and while I am ambivalent toward that sentiment (I've heard pros and cons of writing from knowledge versus having fun and making it up as you go) I can't even follow that advice because I don't know much of anything.  I know about food.  I know about...hm...sleeping.  I know about being lazy and watching television.  And unless I can turn the topic of sloth into a success in both life and the written word, I don't think I'll get very far.

Ah, it's that good old fear, driving me further into the corner of my black box, insisting I stay where I'm miserable yet familiar with the feeling of darkness and hopelessness.  How is it possible to overcome this fear?  How can you take a stand against something that feels as natural as the flesh that wraps around your bones?  How is it possible to shake off a force that has been your only source of constant presence (albeit unwanted) for nearly your entire life?  That is the great question.  I fear the insurmountable answer.