Please let me breathe. // Elinor Rowlands

I am the founder of Magical Women and I am crumbling.

I used to be great at E-mails.

Until people I worked with would read my e-mails and ask to see me in my office.

They’d want to answer to me verbally

no record

of what

they

were saying to me written down.

They’d smile. Lean back in their chair.

They’d say inappropriate things to me and judge me out loud to my face of what they thought of me and then make their sly, prejudiced observation.

When they’d leave my office.

I’d be shaken.

Shaken up crying

and upset

I’d cry.

My process delay meant I couldn’t reply back to them, correct them or answer them. So I relied on email, on writing to express myself. And I wasn’t being rude, and yet their full blown character and what they thought of me came out like a paintball machine on a wall.

And I’d take it to my manager who I realised was just as scared of them because she’d use my office too - almost as a place to spill out all her stresses about them too.

And this drained me more.

So I had to move away

and stopped coming

in, I couldn’t deal

with the

fact no one talked to each other expressively and were not interested in helping each other, lifting one another up.

I became more than a therapist to people

Less than doormat

But something they could release onto ….. splat.

I’d stare back.

So now this is my experiences with emails:

They arrive

Many of them

They pile up in the inbox and I stare at them.

My draft folder at my artist in residency is at 682.

My draft folder at Magical Women is at 30 (impressed)

and my draft folder in my own personal inbox is 159.

I try again and again and again at emails, I can’t write them

unless the people I know

are kind, and will get it, or understand me (I think).

I don’t want to overwhelm people as the emails overwhelm me.

I know they want a seven worded answer, but I can’t.

It comes out 2 pages.

Then,

I write and re-write, and re-edit and speak out loud them to my friends, and my partner.

I wonder sometimes how they love me

how they want to be my friend when all I do, is,

say out loud words, practice conversations, practice tone of emails, tone of words, write back and forth.

then not sent

some are

though, and in the mean time,
hours are passed

days

hours

years

oh the hours wasted

on how to communicate

what to say

how will this sound

what do i do here

there

what next

and this?

oh the friendships that have burnt out

to a crisp

for the exact same

twit.

twot

twet.

wet eyes, wet cheeks and wet words.

Did you know I wanted to be a writer?

At 4, older younger I carried everywhere paper

I practiced my words first.

On backs of receipts, I practiced words and small talk, introductions.

I’m trying hard to keep this to an article I’ve tried so hard to write, but my words are dancing today.

Today I worked with someone who I met through MW and felt myself explode when they totalled the hours we’d spent on email editing to 5.5 hours and run up the costs

and this is only emails

emails I could do without

and money that could be spent on plans

or spent on

creating

action!

instead editing back and forth what you say in less than 10mins, what you do in less than 1 minute, took me 5.5 hours.

and I’m drained.

Drowning but in water as thick as ink.

and I couldn’t breathe.

I felt my throat tight and eyes pouring out water. I can’t be this costume you put on my bones, this soul you gave me, this thing I’m in.

And I’m not depressed or anxious - I don’t identify with the names or words you give me.

There is nothing wrong with depression, but I am not sad or depressed

The barrier I’m facing is a very very real one - perhaps an obsessive one - where I rewrite and rewrite and compulsively rewrite and edit and rewrite, the way you might try on different clothes but nothing quite fits or looks good and it’s tiring and it’s exhausting

and it’s titing and it’s exhuasting

all the muscles in my neck and head are tight

held in a hug, I sob.

and do they know?

the people at my residency - or you reading this? Do you know how I don’t sleep or rarely do for all the emailing re-writing, editing, stressing and suffering I do, and how people try to overclaim over 50 hours working with me to claim justice on my inability to email.

And if they spend their entire day replying to all the emails

the loud noise

white noise

loud chatter

we are missing out on all the beauty in the world

all the air outside

all the sea

the breeze

the love we could have for

each other.

So if I don’t reply to your emails and don’t want face to face meetings with you - please let me turn off my camera - see your face, have you speak to me as I answer you in a chat box.

That’s my access need.

They let d/Deaf people do it

but won’t let me

even though I’ve told them a thousands time I have auditory processing delay

and I’ve told them my access needs

again

and

again

and again and

so I am hoping for the time when emails and communication is not neurotypically forced.

I am hoping for a time

when I won’t be undermined

for not doing things as you do

or not being able to do as you do

and not coping with the minute dot

that you

i am in a dark room and i am asking,

please

let

me

breathe.

Painting created in a Magical Journeys Workshop, by Elinor Rowlands, 2020

(and that’s why I paint).