A question I pose to myself: If I’m not writing, how can I call myself a writer? Am I still a writer? Does “writing in my head” — however much a natural state — count?
Writer’s block?
You could say I’m suffering writer’s block, yes. But that’s a simplification to redirect attention, a cover story, a subterfuge.
I am disconnected from my usual writing process. I am filled with negative emotions and dark words that won’t quite reveal themselves inside the storm cloud. And I understand too well that we live in a culture that is beset with darkness on many fronts; we don’t want to consume personal accounts that deepen desolation, unable to bestow positive messages to buoy our sinking spirits.
But must we always say only what we know others wish to hear? When do we allow ourselves to speak the truths we are living? When do we get to just say it? When can we say, straight out, “I’m tired, I’m depressed, I’m angry, I’m frightened, I’m worried, I’m unhappy?”
Not writing? For me, it’s a kind of not being. More specifically, it’s a kind of not being myself, not giving, not parsing the world in ways I can process it, not fully experiencing the beauty and breadth of moments I would wish might linger — the joy in loving, in creating, in tasting, in perceiving, in connecting.
Instead, I operate in a sort of boarded up space; I am less able to breathe deeply, less able to find kindness for others, utterly unable to be kind to myself as I become someone I don’t care to spend time with. I am also unable to bullshit, to offer solace in “light fare” that might otherwise be pleasant, distracting, helpful in its own way. I am lousy company. So of course it follows that I ask this: If I don’t like who I am — and I don’t these days — how can anyone else like me? If I don’t want to spend time with me, how can anyone else want to?
These questions are rhetorical and actual, endlessly circulating in my inner dialog through a muddle of irritation and deep disappointments, in my narrowed universe in a new place I don’t yet call home, and in a continuing physical and emotional state of affairs that is cut off from any sense of participating in the world. In place of action — passivity, inertia, and isolation born of very real obstacles and a few stubborn shreds of pride.
Sleep deprivation has a great deal to do with my frequenting of futility; chronic pain, much like ongoing anxiety or depression, steals away the ability to catch sufficient winks, forty or otherwise. And apparently, my little adventure with shoulder and arm difficulties carries with it, as a typical symptom, an extended period of sleep deprivation. This is due to the fact that virtually no position is physically comfortable, there are no pain or sleep meds along for the ride, and it’s all about toughing things out until I can progress into one of the “improved” stages.
On a happy note, I am looking forward to those improved stages, thanks to — at last! — locating a physical therapist in this new place, a process that was long and slow and a bit convoluted. More importantly, I recognize the skill in the therapist’s fingers working through soft tissue in the affected areas, that recognition a matter of experience gained with my last foray into the land of physical therapy to deal with misdiagnosed injuries, complications, and now yet another complication. I admit to feeling a measure of optimism that there is a light at the end of this gnarly tunnel, thanks to those skilled fingers that I can only hope will bring me back to a more functioning self.
Life has taught me many lessons. I am living these lessons again, here, now. Lessons that are basic and humbling.
I understand that pain distorts the world. I am well aware of the connection between chronic pain and depression. I know too well that sleeplessness casts the charlatan’s shadow over our capabilities. Isolation, a common consequence when we are unable to get out in the world, threatens to strangle hopefulness.
The product of this malevolent mix?
Despair. A self and a set of emotions we may perceive as only minimally recognizable, leaving us — correction, leaving me — unable to like myself, even if the only dealings by which I make this judgment are those I can observe in my own head, bounded by the conversations, the views, and the frustration of finding myself facing huge obstacles once again after facing them down not so long ago, and after so many years. As I embarked on a relocation several months back, I was convinced that I was finally headed into a freer, more exciting, more upbeat period of possibilities.
The reality has been different from “the plan.”
Does that sound like whining?
It does to me. Don’t you see? “Poor me” is a vile, off-putting knee-jerk reaction. And how I detest any trace of that response in myself. So you can understand why the chatter that goes on in my head doesn’t warrant space on a page. Hell. I keep trying to chase the negative words and thoughts from my brain, though that too becomes exhausting. And I loathe the victim mentality, the “why me?” attitude that too easily comes calling when life turns complicated and those complications don’t let up, like some damnable house guest that drops in uninvited, trashes all the rooms, and never exits stage left. It’s bad enough begrudging that nasty bugger a bed; I certainly don’t want his foul attitude seeping into my writing, much less purloining my thoughts and actions.
And that brings me to this bit of reality: Along with pain when I type, an inevitability with my shoulder condition that will eventually improve, there have been other disappointments, largely though not exclusively in myself. My resulting ragged mood is why I haven’t written much of anything here (or elsewhere) in many weeks. My optimism, if not curdled, is soured; while always tempered by what I consider a rational dose of pragmatism, optimism has nonetheless persisted as part of my personal world view — believing not only in my own better angels but those of most of us. I bear witness in my life to many acts of kindness, typically from strangers. So how could I not remain optimistic in some corner of my outlook?
None of us is immune to accident, injury, or illness. We know this to be true, and likewise, that how we deal with it is a measure of character. But how we deal with adversity is not one note; we are complex beings, harmonies both agreeable and dissonant. We have good days (and hours); we have bad days (and weeks).
We do what we can. If we don’t like what we’re doing on that score, we try to forgive ourselves, and we try to do better.
Another question that batters me, perhaps because I choose not to face a haunting underlying fear: If I spend a prolonged period of time during which I am useless, unproductive, not contributing to some quantifiable marketplace; if I have difficulty imagining that I will ever be useful again, then do I have value? Am I just taking up space?
Here, in terms of usefulness, I consider my qualities as a person and my capabilities as a writer, an editor, a marketer, a creative, a thinker — I’ll stop there; you get the picture. In that list, I intentionally leave off friend, lover, parent. I am not much of a friend to anyone these days, though two or three friends are strikingly stalwart in my little world, albeit far away. As a lover or partner, I am null; those aspects of my life are absent. As a parent, while my role has changed significantly over recent years, I recognize that my love and compassion, while only intermittently accessed, remain a source of background constancy, stability, and reassurance to my young adult sons. A parent’s love, however imperfect, is foundational. I suppose I might ask myself: If I am not actively “parenting,” am I still a parent — and a good one, at that?
On that score, I would answer “yes” without hesitation. So perhaps, even in my haze of sleeplessness, even in my leaden sense of uselessness and worry that this will become a permanent rather than temporary state, and even in my current isolation that heightens the noisy silence that I prefer to the falsity we typically live by, I can apply similar logic. Even if I am not useful in any measurable way, I am not without value; even if I am not loving a partner in life, I am a loving person; even if I am not writing, I am a writer.
Tell me. At a middle stage in life, when so much seems to be changing, when doors seem to be shutting, when reinvention is a matter of survival above all else, do you know who you are? If you cease doing the thing that defines you, if you cease being compensated for work you have done for years, do you feel as if you have lost yourself? And when sleep is stolen, can you imagine a day when it returns, and with it, your brighter grasp of capacity?
This is not a single question nor a single topic; I am of course touching on issues of underemployment or unemployment, issues of incapacity whatever the reasons, issues of self-image and self-definition.
Issues of worth, in every sense of the word.
Let’s just say it. Sometimes, life turns to shit. The thing is, most of the time, it isn’t permanent. Or so we must tell ourselves in order to go on.
And we do go on, conscious of the difference between realistic and defeatist. Perhaps this is why when I am barraged by negative words in my head, I take to lecturing myself. I vacillate between wanting to give my feelings of fear and frustration their airing (so I can move beyond them), and simply delivering a good scolding in front of the mirror, brow furrowed, lips pursed, and finger wagging straight at yours truly. I remind myself of what I wrote at a moment of intersecting pragmatism and determination: Relocating when you are older and on your own is not for the faint of heart. I could not have imagined that my bumpy landing in a (longed for) “new life” would be quite this bumpy, but it can always be (much) worse, it needn’t mean I drop to the bottom of the well if I fight the fall, and however much I am existing through a fog of discomfort and insomnia, I will get through it.
I am convinced that I am fortunate; physical therapy will, eventually, bring me back to fuller physical functioning, the ability to engage with people in this new environment, and more than two or three hours of sleep a night. I will hope for (and assume?) no further complications to these old injuries. And while I will have lost time, energy, money, and emotional reserves, I will, once again, extract lessons from the experience which, perhaps, I will write about.
This “obstacle,” utterly unforeseen, has stalled my ventures in reinvention, but will not squash them permanently. These are vows I make to myself, promises I will work to keep, dreams I’m not ready to see slip away.
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So sorry to hear that your life has been sidetracked, and your “reinvention”… well, delayed. You seem to have encountered a perfect storm of obstacles and variables that feed upon and exacerbate each other. But you ARE a writer. I know you know that, but wanted to say it nevertheless. And you (and your writing) have value. Always. Hopefully the physio will help. Bad physios and chiropractors always make situations worse. Good ones, of course, are gold.
Your readers are still thinking about you even when you’re not blogging. And will welcome you back when you are ready.
Thank you so much for the kind comments, Susan. And yes, there are good physical therapists and those that are less competent. I too have had experience with both. This time around, I am already convinced I’ve got a good one. That in itself makes me hopeful.
I wish you and your family a wonderful holiday season!
“If you cease doing the thing that defines you, if you cease being compensated for work you have done for years, do you feel as if you have lost yourself?” And there it is…the real question…how do I now evaluate my worth…do I still count? Of course, the answer is “yes”, but we need to feel that…to accept that this struggle is not a question of our value, but of our strength, to keep our heads above the rising tide. The recession that cost so many of us our livelihoods nine years ago, and made way for a new administration, lingers stubbornly to the fabric of ordinary lives. Several years ago, while sipping tea at Barnes and Noble, I noticed a tall, middle-aged woman sweeping through the bookstore with quiet efficiency. She gathered discarded magazines from empty tables, quickly placing them back on shelves. She returned empty coffee cups to the café counter and deposited crumpled muffin wrappers into the waste bin. She looked around to see what needed to be done, then did it. She was the epitome of efficiency and action seldom seen in such a retail environment. Myself, having been recently laid off when my company closed its doors forever, I was curious about this woman, who was probably making minimum wage but, carried herself like the CEO of this enterprise. So, one day, I approached her and asked how long she’d been employed at Barnes and Noble. She told me she, along with forty percent of her colleagues, had been laid off two years ago from her job as an advertising executive with a major corporation. She tried everything she knew to find a new job, but finally realized it was this opportunity, or nothing. She acknowledged it was difficult at first, not the job, but feeling the loss of her identity and her worth. She was going it alone. Eventually, she told me, she woke one morning with a new perspective on her life…this was where she needed to be right now, and she would make the best of it. That was five years ago, she’s still at the same Barnes and Noble, just as engaged as the first moment I noticed her…and was just made assistant manager. Is she happier? I don’t know…she puts in as many hours as before, six days a week…but I do know she’s relieved she’s keeping her head above the incoming tide.
There’s no special message here, just an observation about someone who was going through the same crisis of self that still plagues me. My best to you…always, and “may the force be with all of us”.
I love the story you shared here, Angela. And I do think it serves as a wonderful example to us. As for my story, yes, there is the issue of retaining a sense of self worth when you are not being compensated for your work, or even able to avail yourself of work opportunities — particularly when increasingly marginalized, so often the case re our ageist society.
All that aside, health issues always remind us to count our blessings and never to take the ‘extraordinary ordinary’ for granted.
Wishing you and yours a happy and healthy holiday season.
Hi DA,
Blog lurker here. Sending sympathy and kind thoughts. I understand isolation and despair, and they do feed on each other. Unlike you, I naturally incline to melancholia so have to always take concrete steps to get out of my head (and my condo!) when I’m really down.
You’re a bit vague with the exact nature of your obstacle…(an opportunity you thought you’d have with the move hasn’t materialized?) One of the things I admire about you–as I perceive YOU from reading your blog–is your courage and perseverance. It takes guts to leave a corporate life and become a freelance writer. And you are a writer! A strong writer. You’ve hit a rough patch and it sounds like you need to find new paying clients. Yuck! Hard to do. I I’m in a similar situation myself. And yes, I can relate to the second-guessing of one’s sense of self/value when the money is not coming in.
Good luck.
Hi Riley. It’s always nice to hear from a lurker. The obstacles are physical, making it hard for me to care for myself much less to get out and meet people to gain new clients in a new geography. And although I have dealt with chronic pain for many many years, and have always been able to complete work projects without clients having a clue, the nature of this particular pain is more limiting and the sleep deprivation very challenging.
That aside, having just located a good physical therapist, I am feeling hopeful that it is just a matter of time before I am sufficiently better to get on with exploring my new location, meeting new people, providing services to new clients, and maybe finally being able to unpack a few more boxes.
To be clear, as I am in a no bullshit zone at the moment, I did not leave the corporate life to become a freelance writer by choice. So I certainly deserve no kudos for that. Although I was always writing on the side, I preferred the stability of a salary coming in. Laid off in my 40s and in the midst of a contentious divorce, I was never able to get another ‘regular employment’ job again. I attribute this to being of a certain age, in a specific industry, and complicated by the fact that I could not freely travel as a solo mother.
And the older that any of us get, the more difficult it is to hide our age, and avoid the very real ageism that exists in our employment and freelance marketplace.
As you no doubt well know, there are millions of us in this position. And shame on us as a country for being unwilling to encourage the very tangible contributions that those of us over 50 can continue to make.
And yes, everything is harder when you are in no man’s land financially, particularly if derailed by a family or medical event, as expenses are streaming in and resources, invariably, depleted. In our society of patchy-to-nonexistent social safety net, survival can be a struggle to say the least.
What gets us through? Stubborn persistence. Constant creative reinvention. A bit of luck.
Thank you for your kind words and good wishes. (Drop by again!)
Dear D.A.,
I understand how it can feel to find oneself, after a lifetime of (basically) good health, in the physical conundrum that you describe: impaired by painful injuries that do not heal and bring severe sleep deprivation and the cognitive, emotional and physical vulnerabilities that result from that deprivation. I was falling down that well for nearly two years until, through an excellent referral (from another physical therapist), I finally found a physical therapist who had advanced training in orthopedic issues and knew how to address and help me heal the cause of my pain. I worked with him faithfully for 3.5 months,, until he deemed me ready to do, on my own, the work that remained. That was one year ago next week, and I have been pain-free and sleeping since. A good physical therapist (he was the fourth I had worked with) is worth everything in recovering from an orthopedic injury.
To where have you relocated? Are you in a place where you can spend some time outside each day? When I was falling down the well, I lacked the energy or clarity of mind to help myself, but getting out of my house when I could force myself to helped a greet deal with my perspective.
When my sleep deprivation was at its height, I had to resort to pain medication so that I could, finally, get some sleep. I hated doing that, but it probably saved my life. My physician believed that pain medication (the mildest opioid available) would help more than sleep medication. I limited its use while I was taking it and stopped taking it as soon as I had had 5 of so consecutive nights of effective sleep.
And finally, a word about writing about frustration, fear and/or despair that you are feeling. I want to read what you have to say whenever you can write, because even when you are suffering mightily, and write about it, you have so much to say and you say it so well. (This post is but one example of how true that is, even if you don’t realize it.) Plus we care about how you are and might even be able to lift you up a bit with our comments. Keep us in the loop as much as you can.
With every best wish, Leslie
D.A. – I can appreciate the fine line you walk between wanting to be honest, and not wanting to be self pitying or sour. Like the other respondents, I feel you walk that line very well. And I’m extraordinarily glad you surfaced the very relevant issue of whether we have identity and value as we age, in the eyes of society, and of ourselves.
At first blush it is easy to say that, aside from the very real need for socially productive and personally rewarding employment, our personal feeling of worth is what is really important. But it isn’t that simple. Our feelings of worth are highly dependent on how we are regarded in society. Some cultures revere their elders, valuing them for the wisdom gained from experience. I would think that in that environment, being respected as a person of experience and wisdom would be more than enough replacement for former functional identities.
But obviously that is not the case here. Rather than finally earning a place at the table in public policy and social affairs, we are increasingly neglected (especially medically), disrespected, and eventually warehoused, all so we will depart the planet ASAP. Given that, it is no wonder that we increasingly have trouble with self definition, self respect.
When you cannot even sound a dissenting voice in the face of situations obviously going awry, telling those younger that they don’t know how much they don’t know, any self worth withers in the face of the overwhelming social indifference. There is an internet meme to the effect that those who did study history are fated to having to sit, watch, and suffer the same fate as those who did not. That seems to be an accurate reflection of the role of seniors in today’s society.
Lastly, your account of struggles with emotions reminded of work on emotional intelligence where emotions are ranked in a hierarchy. Although I don’t remember the order, as it was fairly detailed, the scale showed a natural progression of emotions as we deal with difficulty. It started with things like confusion, worry, self-pity, and progressed upward. Your emotions could range up and down the scale, and for extended periods, depending on the severity of the problem. It certainly did not reflect a “Don’t worry, be happy” orientation. Very notably, anger was an essential element in healing and preparation for what was to come, as it is evidence of a healthy, strong motivational force, which is needed for the steps to follow. In short, it sounds like you are dealing with your challenges in an emotionally intelligent way…..
You only have to look at your output over the last (eight+?) years to know that you are a writer par excellence, quality thoughts and insights with many engaged readers; the stories from your readers on unemployment are heartbreaking, you make them comfortable enough to share their fears about the future. Don’t forget that as you work to get past these obstacles. I feel for you in the companion department too as I end another unproductive foray into online dating this week (3 months); it’s tough out here, everybody is hurting in some way in the post-divorce dating world.
On a lighter note, not being a spiritual person, I hesitatingly signed up for a yin yoga class and I’m definitely out of my element with the spiritual overtones and my lack of flexibility 🙂 Going with the flow, I can say the class is relaxing now; I just had to give it a chance. Downward dogging it up north from a DPoC reader, take care!
DA I am sorry to hear about your “troubles.” I am however glad to hear you are still kicking and fighting. While I understand and agree that self pity is not a good place to live it is also human and part of a process. Getting stuck there is another matter. I hope the above is not akin to telling someone who is stressed out to “relax.”
Are you a writer? How can you even question that? You have written extensively, well, with insight and empathy, and had a positive effect. While I can only speak for myself (but I have read other posts) your writings reached me and helped me navigate a difficult time with logic and compassion. These writings are on the net and for that reason immortal where others will lurk and be helped.
It is important to make money to live and survive. Whether you are consistently productive and quantifiable has nothing to do with self worth. While all humans are intrinsically valuable, the Danish concept of Hygge nicely addresses this issue for me. The personal and average, even mundane, are the secrets to peace.
Why me? Sorry DA that is a question for god. I am not qualified to address that nor anyone else. Thinking about this is not helpful when you are in a tough situation.
I had the good fortune of meeting Michael Morton of Texas last week. He was wrongfully convicted of killing his wife, then lost his son while he was in jail almost 25 years. DNA and state file evidence showed information was withheld but also ended up convicting he reall killer with the DNA evidence and the better science 25 years later. His basic wisdom he imparted is that no one escapes illness, death cancer, etc in ourselves or the people we know. Everyone goes through this eventually and we can only choose how we deal with it. Luckily he found god in year 10 of jail. That said it is trite to say but get better, do what you need to and get back on the saddle.
I will wait and I am sure others will wait while you work things out. Take care.