ghostwriting and exorcisms
As I continue on my quest to become a better writer, something I thought was important to do was look back at my old work to reflect on where I was and where I am right now. In doing so, I have realized that I’ve been writing for ten years. And in those ten years of work—mostly authored by my teenage self—I began to find thematic patterns that seemed to be core to my identity-building process, to such a degree that today, as an adult, I still see pieces of myself reflected in those poems and essays. Not with the same teenage anger and angst, but with a quieter kind of ache, shaped by time, which, in many ways, still mirrors the woman I’ve become.
This does not mean that for the past ten years there has been a stagnation in the process of my emotional intelligence development. I tend to write about issues that trouble me, scenarios that force me to sit with a thought and dissect it, real-life occurrences that have left their mark on me—and as a true creature of habit, that is exactly what I have been doing for the past decade…for the most part. In analyzing these thematic repetitions—and one particular piece I hope never resurfaces—I was going on about ghosts. Not the paranormal, Casper, the friendly ghost. No. These were the ghosts that hover, haunt, and reappear at random. The ones who for one reason or another chose to depart, yet they continue to linger. They’re lovers, they’re friends, they’re whoever is actually working against your grieving process. I had named them ghosts back then, and maybe I still would.
In my quiet moment of reflection over these emotional intruders, I began to tunnel into all the times I had to deal with people who cannot leave cleanly—and the number is surprisingly high. My late teens and early twenties were a revolving door for people who came and went as they pleased. From friends I had decided to cut loose due to conflicting values, to (unreciprocated) romantic interests trying to get lucky—although I must say that this is a phenomenon I’ve more commonly seen in romantic interactions, even with women.
I have no answers for you today, as I’m still trying to make sense of it myself. The main question that keeps swirling in my mind is: what part of the human psyche allows for someone to leave but not let go? Is it boredom? Loneliness? The need for validation? Or is just the most cathartic ego trip?
The questions are endless, and every time I ask my friends their answers always diverge. Is it saudade? Is it the need for closure? Is it a genuine attempt at reconnection—or just a power play? These thoughts tangle in my mind, often simultaneously, and they cloud the path to a better understanding.
And so, I invite you to sit in this discomfort of not knowing with me, while I pivot to the self who lets these ghosts linger—me.
It would be easy to sit here and blame others for all the misfortune that happens in my life. But as a sentient, rational, emotionally intelligent being, I cannot help but look inwards and reflect on the role I play in the haunting. If I am to hold myself accountable, I must admit: yes, these intruders choose to knock—but only I can leave the door ajar. I’m the one who chooses, at times, to reopen it. And I’m the only one who can slam it shut and bolt it for good.
There are varying reasons I’ve chosen to entertain these invaders—reasons that trace back not only to my abandonment issues but also to an anxious attachment style that shapes how I connect, detach, and grieve. I am just as complicit in summoning these ghosts as they are in appearing.
Before I understood the underlying conditions that predisposed me to this lingering, I used to think that maybe I allowed it because I found comfort in its familiarity. I’ve now come to realize the error of my ways. There was no comfort in ending, and only sorrow wafted through the breeze that crept through the ajar door. Sorrow that felt deceptively safe. It never was about agency—that was a false narrative I fed myself. It led to me reminiscing these figures as softer than they actually were—memory has a funny way of doing that—and because they were now nostalgic, it was easy for hope to take precedence over reason and lead me to self-sabotage.
Today, I am much better at bolting that door for good, however, there are still figures who manage to slip through the cracks. Ghouls I turn back to due to a fear of finality. A fear of what I may lose—when I should’ve been thinking of what I stood to reclaim once I truly closed that door.
My reasons are mine alone, and again I find myself without answers—why others are so often compelled to become haunting characters in someone else’s life. For a decade now, I’ve documented these hauntings, and in doing so, I’ve done something I never intended: I immortalized these ghosts.
I’ve been ghost-writing trying to make sense of a paranormal occurrence that was never made for me to understand. I thought that writing about them gave me power—I chose the story, and framed the ending—but I also reanimated their presence. On the flip side, writing about them was also an exorcism. I was able to name the ghosts, give them form, and finally banish them from my life.
Maybe that’s the truth I’ve been avoiding all along: in immortalizing them, I too became a ghost. Hovering over old wounds. Rewriting what was never mine to control.
And still, I write. Because even if I can’t escape the haunting, maybe I can learn to live with it.
