On Paper: Unrehearsed
For what it’s worth, as long as I can remember I have been stuck on this idea of making things (read: my life) “look good on paper”.
“…where I am right now: somewhere between I can do better and I’m doing the best I can.”
For what it’s worth, as long as I can remember I have been stuck on this idea of making things (read: my life) “look good on paper”.
So much so, that I when I go back and read things I’ve written - things like “Dear Future Me” assignments, 5,10,15 year plans, college degree paths, and hell, even some of my own journal entries, I wonder how much of it is what I really wanted to say vs what I thought people wanted to hear. Not to mention, and possibly more importantly, the amount of things I didn’t write down because I couldn’t justify them to “make sense”, to “sound good”, or to meet the expectations I assumed people to have of me. I’d love to say I’ve stopped acting in this mindset. I’d love to say that now I know without a shadow of a doubt that everything I write is what I want to write and not because I think you want to read it. I’d love to say that I now write without care but instead with extreme passion. I’d love to say that. I can’t. The proof of this? It’s been four weeks since I have made a blog entry. Four weeks since I’ve engaged on social media. Four weeks since I’ve shown up for myself in the very space I’ve created for myself. How long has it been for you?
Let it be known that I don’t feel like you are owed an explanation of my absence. Quite frankly, it’s none of your business. That said, if my intention is to write what I think is important, to write what is real, and to simply write, then I might as well use this as an open journal entry to get out of my head what has been spinning around in there the last month. So, here’s to having no clue where this might end up. To using this as a brain-dump rather than trying to create a thoughtful essay with a clear storyline to be loved by millions. Here’s to jumping on the train of thought full aware there are no visible tracks. To getting something down on paper, trying to not care if it looks “good”, and simply doing it anyway.
Well, here it goes:
When I was in my undergraduate program I took this class called History of Sexuality. It was one of the requirements within my minor and where my eyes were opened to the greatness that is the musical Hamilton. I was taking the class with two of my friends who happened to be former classmates of one of my younger brothers. This information is important because when these friends were in high school their history teacher was the graduate apprentice of our current college professor (which our professor was aware of). Additionally important, one of them was a history major and had former classes with our professor and the other was an honors student within the humanities department. So, through a series of association, I was grouped in with two very talented and well known students. I went from fly-on-the-wall and random-psych-major to “this girl must also know what’s up.” To be fair - I did not (but I have learned how to play that part). A month into the semester and the time had come for us to turn in our first papers. I have no idea what the paper was about but I do remember being handed back my graded paper. I don’t remember the letter grade I was given but as my professor handed it back to me he said,
“I know you can do better than that.”
I walked out of the class with my friends, heated. Sure I cared that my grade wasn’t an A but I knew I didn’t earn one (shout out to my procrastination). “How does he know I can do better? He doesn’t know me. He’s never read my writing before. I don’t have the history background that the two of you do. Honestly, what if this is the best I can do?” Comments and questions like these poured out of my mouth and into my friends’ ears. They agreed with me, laughed at me, and then laughed with me as I ended with - “Well, I mean he’s right. But how does he know that? He seriously doesn’t know me.” Then, of course, every paper after that I had to prove him right - I was better than that.
Let it be known that I’m the type of person that gets just as mad at people telling me “You’re better than that” as I do with those stupid bumper-sticker-style, inspirational-text-photos that say, “You’re doing the best you can.” Yes. Both of them, as polar opposite statements, get one of three of the same responses from me: 1) the always favorite, “You don’t know my life.” 2) “You’re right”, and 3) “(choice expletive of the moment), no I’m not.” Why is it that both of these make me mad? Well, the full and deep answer probably requires a few more hours of therapy than I’ve sat in on but let’s go ahead and say: not liking other people to tell me/assume who I am (I know this contradicts my whole identity - welcome to my brain) and being aware of the negative effect both of these can have on someone’s mental health - or at least my own.
You see, when you tell someone they’re “better than that” and their best at the moment is honestly getting out of bed - you are only twisting the knife. You are invalidating real emotions that have a very real chemical reaction in their brain that leads to only making them feel worse. On the other end, when you tell someone they’re “doing the best they can” and they’ve chosen to sit down on the corner of apathy and fear you are only justifying their inaction. This justification ultimately ends up leading them to accepting numb as an appropriate state of being because Facebook told them they were “fine”. While both statements have their place and can truly be comforting; they can also be harmful. They have the potential to either lead to the burnout at the end of “more is more” and hustle culture or to the belief that it is acceptable to live life as a shell of a human full of apathy and void of passion. Neither of which are good or okay. I beg you, be careful as you interact with these words - both as a dealer and a consumer.
So, where have I been the last four (really eight) weeks? I’ve been splitting days somewhere between the two.
When I pressed publish on my first post it was like I let those four words, “I’m proud of you,” leave this wall I’ve built around a large piece of my soul like a naked Miley Cyrus licking a sledge hammer, wrecked. I’ve never given birth, but pressing publish was probably the closest I will be to doing so for a while. I took something that has been stirring in my soul building up over the course of years and I let it out into the world. It was both exhilarating and exhausting. Within seven days 200 different people (or IP addresses) across twenty-three states took a moment of their time to read what I had to say. Take that amount of social interaction and add to the fact that my numbers brain became obsessed with the analytics - it was too much. I became consumed and needed to take a step back. This need for a pause became evident when I watched the numbers drop over the next two weeks. I was sharing things I was excited about but was becoming disappointed by the lack of views. I began questioning my place in this space. I felt like I didn’t belong in the very space I created for myself and I hated that feeling. So, I stepped back. Then, as things do, that step back turned into a sit down, to a lay down, to a “if I can’t finish a thought, I might as well go to sleep.”
This response wasn’t just reflective in my writing but also in my professional and personal life. I stopped drinking water. I stopped taking my nightly walks. I started eating far too much sugar. I spent more time just sitting in my car (IYKYK). I missed dance practices. I procrastinated on completing work assignments that are vital to my job. I essentially threw all my balls into the air, rubber and glass, and watched as they began to fall in slow motion - just waiting on which broken pieces would matter enough to me to care again. I used my emotional exhaustion as an excuse to stop doing everything else that made me feel like a person. Instead, I scrolled through Instagram blindly for hours, I binged New Girl for the third time - just because, and I managed to force myself to stay awake hypnotized by blue light rather than just go to sleep. I wrote, deleted, rewrote, and abandoned about four different pieces all because I didn’t find them to be “good enough.”
I find it equally important to mention that within these last four weeks I have also attended a woman’s conference that quite literally will go down as a weekend that changed my life. I have made friendships that I hope to continue to grow and invest in. I have purged a solid one-third of my storage unit - a rather huge victory against my hoarding tendencies. I have shared belly laughs with growing little ones, I said yes to a spontaneous concert, and I started drinking water again.
I recently recalled the back and forth that is expressed by Paul in Romans 7 and it perfectly sums up how I have been feeling:
“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”
Listen, I know as I eat a bowl of fruity pebbles at midnight that I really should just go to bed. And yet, I pour another bowl. I know as I scroll mindlessly through Instagram that I should read one of my many unfinished books - or write one of my many unfinished entries instead. And yet, I skip over to YouTube to watch four year old CollegeHumor videos. Because, you know, seeing what nonsense Brennan, Grant, and Katie are being overly dramatic about is clearly a solid and better use of my time.
Call it depression, call it apathy, call it exhaustion, call it anxiety, call it fear, call it whatever you want - I’ve dabbled in them all. Is there a difference between them? Well, in my own life, I’d say yes. To me, depression is a fight and apathy is a forfeit. There is honor in a fight. There is no honor in a forfeit. Taking that into account, I’ve decided I’m going to start calling it a direct attack on my soul. I’ve decided to believe that there must be a powerful impact waiting somewhere within my writing that the enemy is determined to take it from me. Not only is he determined to take it from me, the clever bastard is letting me take it away from myself. He doesn’t have to lift a finger when I let fear and idleness do the work for him. Well, in hopes to get back to the gusto I spoke with two months ago, let me speak plainly with a breathy and weary voice until I can scream it from rooftops again, fuck that shit. If this is war then it’s time I show up and start fighting. I can’t say what fighting will look like everyday - but I know all days it needs to look like time spent in prayer and with putting something down on paper.
Well, that’s it. Words on paper: unrehearsed and unconcerned about how they’re perceived because they’re an honest reflection of where I am right now: somewhere between I can do better and I’m doing the best I can.
To the friend that messaged me yesterday and told me it was okay to be a bum, thank you for valuing rest.
To the friend that messaged me an hour later asking where my latest blog post was, thank you for valuing my passion.
And, to the fortune that I got from eating at a delicious but unnecessary Chinese buffet earlier this week that read: “Many possibilities are open to you - work a little harder”, thank you for not so subtly calling me out on my bullshit.
