This one is for you.

[ estimated reading time: 4 minutes 27 seconds ] © a rainbow at night
Dear reader,

As you may have discerned by now if you’ve been witness to the longest unintentional hiatus this blog has ever undergone, my creative expression has been paralyzed lately. Not only due to the sheer mass of change, but the rate at which it’s taken place. That’s not the only reason by a long-shot, but it’s the quickest explanation I can give.

For the past several years, my posts have mostly read as a chronological account of everything I’ve experienced and how I’ve felt about it, generally accounted for as it happened. Up until recently, I didn’t realize the latter was actually a luxury, and one I could lose. Again, I’m circumventing a lot, but after a certain point that way of writing became impossible, because to write anything new first required procuring necessary back story; that itself became impossible, because I’ve been coping with unprecedented difficulties concerning processing and integration. How could I summarize for others what I was unable to decipher for myself?

There was also guilt involved. One post in particular I made last year was about finally experiencing an extended period of emotional stability after killing off the bartonella (infections). Yet fast forward and what came next were some of the most daunting and powerful months I’ve ever experienced, and they were anything but serene, anything but peaceful, with no stability, save for that quiet place inside my soul. I didn’t know how to magically jump from what I wrote before, to that, without any explanation in between. It was inconceivable. I was afraid my inability to appropriately narrate the explanation would make it seem like I’d just been avoiding my emotions until I could no longer keep up the denial and hit a brick wall. Which was not/is not true at all. Continue reading “This one is for you.”

Freedom to write…just not on Twitter.

After spending a week considering a one month break from Twitter (and other social media outlets), I “stumbled across” something I wrote two years ago on my personal blog when I first tried this. (I say “I stumbled upon,” but I do not believe in coincidence.) Almost exactly like now, I had just relapsed (the one that necessitated I stop treatment) and found myself needing to prioritize my energy in order to adapt to my new normal. I’m posting it here partially as a testament to my growth, partially to explain my current social media absence using words I’ve already written (no spoons!), and partially that others might identify with any of the struggles I had back then. But trust me, this is NOT an anti-technology rant!


Tuesday, 18th December, 2012

I feel a need to be more free in my writing and not always have it dictated by a clear “purpose.” I mean, obviously there is always an intent, but this All or Nothing mindset that has still somehow managed to stick onto my creative expressions is getting me no where.

I fear having a bunch of unfinished projects because in my brain I’ve associated that with something “bad.” It’s “bad” to not finish things, and it’s “bad” to start something new before you finish what you’ve already begun. And perhaps for many things, even most things, that’s true. How will you see what you can do if you don’t see anything through? But this isn’t a major life decision–it’s expression. The All or Nothing mindset was drilled into me since I was a child, but it’s time to evaluate why I think the way I think. Do I really feel that way, or do I think that because someone taught it to me and I never stopped to question it, question them? No, I get to choose which rules I live by, which ones will serve me, and my common sense says there are exceptions to everything.

If there is an option between writing nothing because you cannot write everything, or writing a little even if it might take a while to make sense… I don’t want my brain to implode from a lack of expression.

On that thread, I really am more focused and thinking in more complete thoughts since being off of Twitter. I didn’t tell many about that experiment and I wasn’t blogging again yet, so I’ll recap. I read this blog article–“I quit Twitter for a month and it completely changed my thinking about mostly everything“–and it struck me because of this section:

“I used to believe that time was the most important thing I have, but I’ve come to believe differently. The single most valuable resource I have is uninterrupted thought.
“I’ve realized how Twitter has made me break up my thoughts into tiny, incomplete, pieces-lots of hanging ideas, lots of incomplete relationships, punctuated by all manner of hanging threads and half-forked paths. I am perfectly fine with unfinished work-in fact, I doubt I’ll ever be a better finisher than I am a starter. But I’ve found that my greatest joy, deepest peace, and most valuable contributions come from intentionally choosing where to let my focus rest.”

After reading the potential for this social networking site to do that to one’s psyche, combined with the fact that I’d recently been putting thought into what purpose Twitter served me (something I feel is important to do from time to time; weed out what doesn’t bring you where you want to go), I had to try it for myself.

It’s barely been two weeks since I told everyone on Twitter I’d be leaving until the new year, and I haven’t tweeted since…save the automated ones that post from my health blog. I have logged in occasionally to see if there were any mentions or replies, but no. Is that unusual for someone with almost 200 followers that are otherwise pretty chatty?

One major part of Adam’s Twitter ramble was how much he CARED, and how the site was draining him emotionally because he couldn’t really do anything about the bits of information that were posted. I can thoroughly relate to this because my main use of Twitter was participating in the support system us “spoonies” formed. There are lots of tweets about suffering. (It was easier to release the thought there, where people at least understood, instead of “bothering” friends or making Facebook posts.) So sure, he wanted to do something for people, but–much like myself–he liked to show sincere care and do something real to help, and how can you do that for the hundreds of little tidbits posted? Truly, they leave more questions than anything. “Twitter is outsourced schizophrenia.”

And one major facet of people like us, the “carers,” is that.. we care a whole hell of a lot more than most, meaning we get close to people and form connections with them easier than most. This is never clearer to me than when I leave behind any social networking platform I’ve ever used: I want to take people with me, but they don’t care where I go. I want to keep in communication with those I’ve formed bonds with so I leave e-mail addresses or new account locations, but they never contact me again.

And it is what it is, truly. I realize people are meant to come in and out of others’ lives. But the fact is I end up caring about others far more than they care about me, which–in Twitterland, especially–means I extend energy toward irreconcilable situations and incomplete relationships. This is not something that is conducive to what I want, need, and am entitled to as a human being. (Maybe, too, I’m just from a different time, before the internet when people called and wrote and relationships weren’t so throw-away.)

And my thoughts, it’s like they all had their potential to become something, but the goal really did become fitting them into character limits instead of expanding them. It filled the temporary niche for an expressed thought, but then it died there. Did I explore any introspection or make blog posts when I was on Twitter? No. (Of course there were other reasons I haven’t been blogging on this account, but.) It’s honestly kind of amazing, when you think about it.

I do miss Twitter, though, for when I REALLY DO have tiny incomplete thoughts. I must have been using it wrong, something it wasn’t designed for, at least not for people like me who are creatures of many words. So I call this experiment a success! More useful knowledge to bring with me into the new year. I was never a Twitter addict, but when I return to it next year, I will not be checking it as much, I will know my limits when I start to become irrationally emotionally invested, and I will be more mindful to use it in a way that adds to my life.

I thought I had been doing that, but when I started to delete people, I felt like I was doing something wrong. I felt guilty pruning through the lists of users to leave only the ones that inspired me to be greater–a thought that, when I type it, seems absurd! As Adam wrote,

“Ultimately, I still *like* a lot of those people and like much of what they have to say. I don’t believe that restricting the people I follow to only the ones I agree with 1000% of the time is healthy.”

But if I cannot find a way to keep balance with it, it has to go until I can do so. As I always say, if you’re not going to use social media for what you want out of it, why is it in your life?

I knew the Universe had something to show me when it brought that article to me right when I was contemplating my relationship with Twitter. As Oprah would say it, I have learned to listen to the whispers before the bricks start flying!


I remember how well that one month break ultimately worked for me the last time, and reading this old post solidified my decision to do it again. I laughed at how, even in my old entry, I mentioned Adam’s post appearing right as I was contemplating a break. This time, my own old post came to me! The Universe always sends us what we need, if we pay attention. With my newly-limited energy, I need to focus. I don’t have spare energy to do it all anymore. The situation has changed, and I must change with it.

If it’s not bringing you where you want to be, let it go. “Let go or be dragged.”

a rainbow at night

Creativity and the Fear of Being Forgotten

a piece I only previously attached to the bottom of one of my posts. quote by David Bate.

It was about seven months ago that I made a post begging the question, What all could you do if you just changed your expectations of how to do it? And I affirmed that I was bringing out my art supplies again, because I could still paint if I relaxed the restrictive expectations I put on myself of how it needed to be done.

And thus, over the course of two months, I made this watercolour painting.

Then last month, I had a major epiphany.

It started as a sort of existential crisis, seeing a different butterfly on Instagram which I immediately wanted to paint…until I thought about the actual process of doing so. Then I became very drained, and I couldn’t tell if I just didn’t like painting anymore, or maybe I was just really overwhelmed by all the work it would take. Those seemed the most probable reasons.

And yet the entire week prior, I’d been schooled by the Universe from every corner on the differences between who we once were and who we become. How we progress into completely different people, if we’re doing it right. Even the “us” of several years ago, we appear the same, but–to pull from an episode of How I Met Your Mother–it’s as if we are our own doppelgänger, after having changed so much.

I mulled over my mysterious lack of artistic enthusiasm all day, a bit thrown off at the idea that someone with so much talent might not want to “art” anymore. Do people really just stop being artists? How was it that I identified such a need to paint, yet all I felt was frustration? How was that even possible?

Then something happened that knocked me off my metaphorical feet.

There was a PBS special airing the ballet documentary Dancing at Jacob’s Pillow: Never Stand Still, and at the moment I caught it, they said something really profound about one of the men in the business.

Ted Shawn, toward the end of his life, wrote,

“It is a paradox that I, who have a strong desire for what will endure, and will be permanent, should have chosen the art form which leaves nothing but memories. And yet I am satisfied this is my medium, and my destiny.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear to tie together all my pondering of the past several days. The Universe had been preparing me to let go of who I was trying to force myself to be just because it’s who I’d always been, and embrace all that I was now. And in the moment I turned on the television, I was receiving a wake-up call.

Hearing that segment helped me recognize I wasn’t so much being an artist as I was clinging to the idea of being an artist, to escape a common human emotion.

I realized that I wanted to paint and produce art, not out of a genuine desire and love of the process, but out of fear of not leaving something behind more than memories.

That was a difficult pill to swallow, but finally everything made sense. I was frustrated because the act of painting, in that moment, was no longer about expressing joy, but controlling anxiety.

And maybe I’m not as much of an artist as I used to be, but I am multifaceted, as are we all. Since relieving myself of that burden and seeing things as they are instead of how I want them to be–or otherwise through the lens of fear–I also realized that over the years I’ve slowly made the transition from Artist to Writer. And I say transition because in the past I’ve always been an artist first and a writer second, but now, my creative spirit flows much more effortlessly through the medium of words. I also enjoy being an amateur photographer; the key word being enjoy.

I have the desire to create, and I still very much enjoy painting, and photography, and writing. And this time, I know better than to jump from one label to the next with the implications that it will save me from the fear of being forgotten.

a piece I did a few days ago, out of the blue, for fun, with random inspiration
a piece I did a few days ago, out of the blue, for fun, with random inspiration

a rainbow at night

What all could you do if you just changed your expectations of how to do it?

My art supplies have been in the largest cabinet of my six-foot-tall dresser since I moved into this house, and even in the old house, they were put away because I was too sick to do anything except extremely sporadic artwork. And I don’t believe in putting a bunch of “supposed to finish” projects out and about; I think it leads to stress. I didn’t need to stare at things that were impossible at the time, reminding me of what I couldn’t do because of the effects of being in treatment, and the limitations imposed by disease. I think the things you need to put in your immediate vision, around your workspace, are the things you’re actually going to work on.

And now it’s time to bring them out.

I am going to paint. I am going to convert my desk–which up until now has been used for normal desk activities–into a place for my art supplies. My white writing desk is going in the living room, and I’m bringing in my larger, flatter one to better serve my purposes. And a lamp. And a printer. But I digress…

Most won’t understand the significance of me, someone with OCD, converting their perfectly markless desk into an art station, where it will most certainly become covered in…everything.

Luna got me more watercolours.
Melissa got me more charcoal.
I just re-found my ink.

Things are not going to stay clean.

I can’t do art like I used to do. (Or perhaps I could, just once, but having my arms take two months to recover from such an unwise activity is just..dumb.) And you know what? That’s okay. Now I can do different things, perhaps better things. I’ve only recently begun to see the thrill of painting, and I can learn more. I just can no longer expect myself to sit down and complete a project all in one go, like I used to…

And it wasn’t bad that I did things like that. It was what I was capable of at the time. If I had a random hour of being able to sit up then I had to use it wisely and do whatever I could in that hour, because it could be months before I got that chance again. My usual daily limit of being upright was less than 30 minutes per day, which I usually needed to eat and bathe.

Long before that, I would draw for hours at a time, relax with music and my pencils and everything else faded away…

But some days I still may be able to paint for hours, like the day I made this poster for my niece, combining some ideas I saw online:

For my niece, so she will have something to remind her that someone thought she was amazing and wonderful.

Other days–probably most days–I can go back and forth between desk and bed, whether it’s a physical desk or my overbed desk, sitting up and painting for short stretches of time and lying back down while I wait for the paper to dry between layers. That works out, doesn’t it? And I’m okay with having to do that.

I’m not going to stop doing things just because I can’t do them the way I used to, or the way I want. The end result is still possible, I just have to achieve it in a different way.

 

What do you think you could still do if you just changed your expectations of how it “needed” to be done?

a rainbow at night