hannah song, writer.

That was a mantra of an old friend and lately it’s been a recurring thought that likes to pop in and out of my mind during the most random moments. Because of how frequently, and vividly, these words display themselves like a bright neon sign in front of my mind’s eye, I’ve been filled with a strange send of urgency to rectify the current standstill with my creative self. And it’s in this moment, as I’m sitting here with my fingers on the keyboard, that I can really feel the truth of these words, along with the crushing weight of my self-criticism. Creativity is indeed like a muscle and as it’s been a while since I’ve used it, I find that my creative muscle has, without a doubt, atrophied.

Towards the end of September, I tweeted that I would write an article or begin a series of personal essays before the year ends and thought that I would be able to execute a few of the many topics I’ve filed away in the back of my mind but, I have to admit, that was very ambitious of me. Maybe a little too ambitious that it borderlines delusion. To be quite frank, I’m appalled to find that I’m having trouble finding the words, that it almost feels like I’m pulling teeth and all I can think is: how the fuck did I let myself get here?!

So, I guess the next best and self-compassionate thing for me to do is blog again, to reacquaint myself with the process of writing while holding myself accountable for keeping it as a practice in a space where I feel the most comfortable; everything that led me to where I’m at today began with a blog I started for fun. This is really just a return to form. And, for those of you who have accompanied me on and/or followed my journey, I know what you’re thinking: “There she goes, again.” I hear you! How many times have I enabled and disabled the blog feature of this site, with a the intention of regularly updating it, only to disable and hide it again? I’ve lost count. But it never used to be like this, it never used to be this hard.

Writing was like breathing and on the hierarchy of things I couldn’t live without doing, writing came neck to neck with singing. I grew up very poor and my dad would skip lunch so that he would to be able to buy me books to read. I read them voraciously. Life at home was volatile and traumatic and when the real world became too much to bear I turned to books to go to places I have never heard of while the fictional characters became my friends. I was still pretty young when I started to craft stories of my own, weaving together a dreamworld where I was able to laugh and sing freely without the fear of stepping on the landmine of my father’s mercurial fury. As a child, writing was a way to escape the harsh conditions of my reality and when I entered adolescence, writing became a practice of introspection. Maybe it’s because I’d been doing it this way for so long, but the way I processed information, surroundings and experiences went hand-in-hand with writing them out, materializing all the abstract things into something tangible, something visible. Only after I did that was when I felt like I really felt them, you know? And because words cemented my mind’s grasp of any and every experience, I stopped the practice when I started to live in denial.

It was 2010 and I was in denial about a lot of things. Just before the holidays of 2009, I left home in an effort to take control of my own life, removing myself from the abuse and control of my father during a time when my mother was scheduled to undergo a hysterectomy after the discovery of her uterine fibroids. I was heartbroken and guilt-ridden, among many other things, and I made matters worse for myself as I began to self-medicate while falling in love with a toxic narcissistic addict. Those five years were extremely dark, I very much wanted to die every time I had a moment to think about what I was going through so, naturally, I doubled up on my drug intake and turned away from writing. It’s been eight years since I’ve stopped doing hard drugs and five years since the breakup; I’ve picked up my pen and paper a few times within those years to try and pick up where I left off but, and I realize this now as I’m typing, I wasn’t vigilant about it since I was in denial about how difficult it was, and is, to find the right words to articulate what I’m thinking (it’s pretty fucking hard) and how that makes me feel (i feel fucking terrible).

One solid take from this is that, yes, I am definitely not kind to myself. Self-compassion is probably one of the most challenging things to practice and it’s not made any better when I have these ridiculously high standards I make myself meet only to berate myself for days on end when I don’t. Of course the words won’t come as easily as before, I’ve been out of touch with my own voice for almost a decade! Who is Hannah Song, now? What does this practice mean to me now, why is this important and how will I move forward? Denying myself the chance to self-examine through these questions won’t change anything or make the words come any easier—I’ve got to let myself feel the discomfort and really move through it.

It’s a little awkward right now, and I thank you for bearing with me as I have these conversations with myself for you all to see, but I’m really excited to reclaim the parts of me that I have forgotten along the way. And maybe, just maybe, sharing some of my stories will help me shed all the pain and sadness I hold onto so tightly.