Write something. . . anything. I sat there staring at the blank computer screen and sighed rubbing my forehead for what must have been at least the hundredth time tonight. I stared at the screen and wondered what it must be like for other authors to sit down and churn out hundreds of pages at a time. I stared at the screen and wondered how I had gotten here.

The old chair creaked as I leaned back running my hands through my hair. A chill clung to the air and it had to have been just about three in the morning but I couldn't let it go. I had to write something, but what?

Traditionally I've always been a fiction guy but lately after the dry spell I had been going through I would have been happy to at least be able to write a short essay on the mating habits of pigeons. I spent countless nights trying to write again but no matter how long I sat there in front of the computer as soon as I put my hands on the keyboard my mind went blank.

I had heard of writers block when I was younger, heard about it and scoffed thinking to myself that it would never happen to me. I feel like the an authors after school special, except in my case it was not a drug habit or hanging out with the wrong crowd that I was set as an example against.

I was always my own worst critic, which means if you know artists or writers means you also know the we torment ourselves with our inner voice. All of our doubts and fears come across in our art just like our loves and hopes. Art is without a shadow of a doubt the window to the soul that bridges all languages and barriers between people.

I tended to let my fears get in the way more than doubts but that was mainly because of my dear old mother. I was raised in a household where the occult was considered more normal than going to church. The firm belief was instilled in me that if I would just read more and listen better I would be a better son.

Never mind that learning Hebrew as a second language at the age of five was complicated. Never mind that trying to force a child to understand advanced hermetic laws that were taught to elderly chaps that held cigars or college students lurking in an attic. Never mind that rather than play with children my own age I was taught to prefer the company of adults.

Nope growing up the way I did certainly was not accomplished with a whole lot of emotional sharing or play time. My mother always scolded me for things I had stopped doing years ago, as if they had just occurred. Never mind good behavior what mattered is that a good boy never misbehaved.

So no wonder when I had some self worth issues. How can you get better if the only one in your world who matters to you is also the only one in the world that can make you understand how little you actually do matter.

When I got a bit older I started writing. Turned out I had a real knack for it and so I kept at it. I read all the time, voraciously eating up book after book. Constantly trying out new authors from the library. But of course mother did not approve. Why read a silly story when you can read something technical and learn something.

I tried to explain to her that I was learning, faster than she could know. But she never listened, I was never a bad boy, but my mother spent so much time acting disappointed in me that I ended up feeling like one most of the time.

Eventually I fell in love and in the process began the long road to where I sit now. In a slightly chilled garage. My dirty hair stuffed into a hat, the glow of lights and computer monitors illuminating not just my desk but my mind in a way.

As you can imagine my mother did not approve of my selection for a mate and so without a warning shot or so much as a dropped gauntlet my mother began a silent war to control my life. Calling jobs to get me fired so I would have to ask her for money was my favorite.

She never admitted it, but from the way some of my old bosses would look at me when I got “laid off” I could tell. It was always the same. I would get the job, show up and rock at it. I really do well at learning quickly and I tended to adapt quickly but it never took long before suddenly I would get laid off.

She would deny it but it was so heated and so sudden it was obvious. In some ways my mother is a horrible liar. But in the worst kind of way she was the best. She used my faith and my love of her against me and nearly destroyed my life simply because she could not have me and control me.

So I stopped writing one day, I think deep down I realized that the only interest she had in me writing and the reason she wanted so much for me to do so was because it was a resource. I was a resource to her, a tool to be used and controlled.

I realized this and so I stopped doing one of the only things in the world that had ever helped me to be me and allow me to deal with the bullshit in my life. It was my therapy and my medicine all wrapped into words and paragraphs that meant nothing to her. All she saw was the dollar signs, which I guess I should have taken as a compliment but instead I reacted with fear.

As I got older my body began to fail me and wisdom began to slowly seep into me. I realized one day that because of the way I was raised I have always seen this world of ours through different eyes and that because of this I have seen more than most.

I was raised with the occult and conspiracy theories. Taught to believe in magic and science with equal faith, and taught that anything that required faith was wrong. So I grew up with only one sense of god and that was my mother. Boy was I bloody wrong about her. I stopped wishing she would change and suddenly be OK when I had an epiphany.

My entire life had been up until that point been controlled by her and by accepting that I had given her power over me and my life. But now thanks to her own machinations I was free of her at last. 

Free to live my life and to be my own man. I still had a thousand tears to cry over what was left of my existence. But at least I can take heart in knowing I am still alive and I am free for the first time in my life to live. Not just exist.

Now as I sit here staring at the computer screen I realize that not only have I done something incredible but I even finished it.