I am a cyclical being, as I think most of us are. For every up there is a down, and vice versa. I feel I am slightly off balance in that my ‘downs’ often outnumber and outlast my ‘ups,’ but regardless, I operate in phases. It will come as no surprise to some that I am currently ‘down.’ (Hence the “black hole” part of today’s title.)
Once upon a time I defined myself as a writer. Writing was all I ever wanted to do, it was all I thought about. 60% or more of my thoughts were off somewhere with characters or scenes or ideas 100% of the time. I wrote because I couldn’t not write, I wrote because the voices of characters who wanted their stories told would only be silenced by the writing.
I haven’t written since February. I won’t go into the details of why, just suffice it to say that no matter how emotionally evolved or intelligent I may be, when the whisperings of my inner critic are not only validated but empowered and strengthened, there is little I can do.
I am creatively paralyzed. I tried, for awhile. I outlined a few ideas, but even the process of plotting was an exercise in masochistic futility. Before each keystroke or pencil mark I was bombarded with doubt: is it believable? What is my target audience? Why should anyone care about this character? What point of view should I restrict this to? Is there a market for this? What is the point in even writing it at all?
It was exhausting, to tell the truth, not to mention depressing – because when I finally stopped trying to outline or revise or write, the voices turned to the vast amount of time I had wasted up to this point writing other things that also were terrible and worthless and so on and so on.
And so I was forced to consider the possibility that I was not a writer after all. Which is when I came face to face with the identity crisis question of the week: Who am I if I am not a writer? What is my passion? What do I want to DO with my life? Which gave birth to my brilliant plan to remove, eliminate, and stop doing everything I was ever interested in. I figured if I emptied myself completely then whatever I was truly passionate about, whatever tried to come back first, whatever I couldn’t live without – that would be the thing I SHOULD be doing.
Nothing came back.
Now THAT’S a depressing feeling, let me tell you. Vast, sucking apathy that didn’t even have the courtesy to make me numb. I didn’t want to write, or take pictures, or even read or play video games … there was simply … nothing.
Along comes a beloved friend (who has endured my various flavors of neurosis for nigh on 17 years now) who listens to my dilemma and gives me the equivalent of the Gibbs head-slap. She reminds me of who I am, how I have evolved, and how it is in my nature to survive – whatever happens to me, whatever is taken from me, whatever compromises have to be made in order to just keep swimming. When I am denied a thing, I not only accept the absence of it, but my subconscious immediately sets about convincing my conscious that I didn’t really need it anyway, that I am better off without it.
This is where the “revelations” part of the title comes in. What a monumentally stupid idea it was to strip myself of everything that I believed made me … me. I want so much to be passionate about something, and yet I refuse to invest myself in anything because I have zero faith that it will remain a constant. So thinking that something would rise up as a passion, the idea that there is anything besides my children & husband that I will truly fight for … it’s absurd.
And of course now I am in the place where I have no idea how to add back any of the things I took away, no motivation to look for anything new, and no idea where to begin yet again the task of rebuilding myself. (More “black holes”) At least I’m working, that fills some of the empty spaces.
