I was ordered to tear down my essays about why my editorial pursuits have led me to this moment of disbelief that a place that juggles content that sometimes includes first-person accounts of what I’m currently enduring — is now threatening my freedom to express myself.
The real shock wasn’t the realization that both of my pieces had to be scrubbed without a trace. It was the gross reminder that I can no longer pretend to be writing for myself any longer.
I can’t hit the button that propels my work beyond my fingertips and expect to maintain that same level of protection I enjoyed when just a handful of readers recommended by work.
Those days are long gone.
Now, I yearn for the delight of producing without fear of exposure. The power of shedding the itchy part of the layers that have to come off regardless — so why not find a place where the dead cells can suffer a harmless demise.
I was recently forced to resurrect my deadly words that highlighted nouns and adjectives that could cause me legal harm.
Both essays were found out and I remarkably never pondered the possibility of speaking to a frantic caller about all the reasons why not complying could lead to dire consequences.
Ever since I removed the words that could cost me everything if they stay in the spot I designed for them — I’ve been thrown into a dull mood that throbs my stubbornness away from the slightly frightened writer — who had it all until her power of expression was attacked with vengeance.
Vengeance from a source that saw itself in my testimony of why job seekers are consistently bullied by desperation and the remnants of a chaotic economic climate — and thus more prone to accepting offers that require all you can give — until you’re tossed back into the mixer that grinds away at your soul.
I was found out and dealt with accordingly. I allowed my voice to be dominated by the power of those in authority — who are not all wrong in pointing out that being pointed out so blatantly — goes against the rules of conduct — and therefore gives them the right to erase me.
Yet — I will not allow the hovering dullness to pick at me — by taking up residency in the instinctual pods of my fantasy — that permits me to clean out the bowels of frustration without streak marks as evidence of the rigidness — that prevents the properness of my delivery.
I talk too damn much because there is a lot to say about a great a many things. And I’m always hungry. I can’t stop indulging in the carelessness of our existence and the messiness of those accused.
I won’t internalize a fucked up day without acknowledging it with the swift movement of my fingertips as the silence of my lips — loudly douses the white canvas that fills up quickly.
I will admit my wrong and express the right to be right — even when I use names of things and places that should be coded — in case streaming bots happen upon the evidence and ask you to remove your published work — or else.
Or else I will be attacked and fined for talking about the attackers and challenged to decide whether I’m a lover or a writer who loves what she does too much to fight off the staggering bills from compliance
There is no way to delicately describe the feeling that overtakes you after you make love to your words one final time — before releasing them to your heart. You stare at the vacated space and realize it looks like that because you were asked to slaughter your spirit — in order to secure the right to ask for references for another bot-like role — at a company that will perform the same ritualistic bullshit as the ones before it.
I can no longer pretend that I’m writing for myself. And I can’t overwhelm that truth with the timid stare of a clean interface — waiting for me to explain how and why the pieces of me that are currently missing — perfectly sum up why being a writer for hire in a world where tossing content about with systematic adherence— has become an unexpected snag that can’t ever be repaired.
I’m either labeled as damaged goods or recycled into something that covers the best parts of me for the sake of viability and survival.
I would rather die than keep my fucking mouth shut. That’s because I talk too damn much. I have a lot whole lot to say that’s waiting to be erased.
So, let the job search begin.