Coping

Christmas, Writing, and this year

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It’s been so long since I wrote anything. It’s been really difficult to get into the space where I connect with inspiration to write and express and leave my heart on paper.

Writing is mostly cathartic but also an extension of who I am. This year has tried me in the deepest way and pushed me to be so much more than I ever thought I could be.

I am so grateful.

So many people had it way harder than I did. I suppose if finding inspiration to do this thing that I desire so much is my only difficulty then I am so fortunate. So yeah… I am grateful.

Gratitude is such a funny thing. It is defined both by what we say and what we hide… this post hides a lot too… even so, at its simplest, it conveys that there was much that was lost by so many. Inspiration, for me, and perhaps time… time that mostly shifted in a blur… and now it is Christmas.

I suppose I will be bleeding on this here keyboard because I am back. And with so much story.

And then COVID-19 changed the world

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So I haven’t written in a while. It’s been a tough couple of months since the first case of COVID-19 was registered in Kenya. I am not playing with ‘Rona so I have been self isolating… and have limited the number of people I interact with on a daily basis (careful to keep it under 3). Then I have worked from home since that case was announced.

Like many people, I thought that I would finally do the Shakespeare thing and come out of this COVID-19 isolation with a novel. Except I have been spent and not an ounce of creativity could be squeezed from my insides. I think I have been subconsciously directing all my energy towards survival and being content with the isolation, the silence, and the sometimes loneliness.

I have to admit that I am more hermit-ish than most people and so being isolated is not a big deal. But there are times when I wake up and wish there was someone else in the house to say “Good Morning” besides my dog… but then again, I am so happy that I get to expose my neurosis only to myself especially in these uncertain terms. So… well… it’s not clear if I am winning or not…

Anyway… for the first time today, after a writing dry spell of about two and a half months, I was finally able to write. Yes — this blog note is a major breakthrough for me! And also, I was a responsible author today and even looked at some edits from my previous book… I can’t stand the typos that were there… (palm-connect-to-face-several-times). I had started the re-edit process before COVID-19 and then lost my mojo.

I am not sure if I have enough mojo to do a new book (or complete all the ones I have started but can’t seem to finish) but I am hoping that I will have it in me to express all that is sitting inside me. There are so many stories that I hope I will get to tell — and so I pray with all that is within me that I will be able to let the creativity flow.

But I am grateful that I can write again. It feels like my soul is sighing and stretching into that magic that makes storytelling the most satisfying of activities.

*Blissful Sigh*

Can I be me?

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So a while back I watched one of the many docu-stories on Whitney Houston on Netflix. It was all very riveting… I mean, she was the queen of voice, right? Super Bowl XXV and Star Spangled Banner…

Anyway, one of her docu-stories has stayed with me. I can’t remember the title – it might even be the same title as my post – but in one of the most poignant scenes, they tell her that she’s about to go on an interview and she innocently (so hopefully) asks, “Can I be me?”

Now, I don’t recall the exact answer she gets but the change in her face makes it clear that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. And you can almost see her slowly shift into a manufactured person. The vibrancy in her eyes fades. But she does well in the interview. Her responses are well-timed and seasoned with the right amounts of bubbly. And she… she is so very severely diminished.

I revisit that image and scene in my mind often. When I encounter people who have high walls and eyes full of secrets. When I try to shade myself and make it look like feminine mystique (I often fail miserably — but the efforts are hilarious even to me). When I hear pain in stories that are so bravely told. When I hear deprecating humor and sarcasm come through in conversations. When I see longing in children’s eyes for affirmation from their siblings. When I hear my mother missing me but trying so hard not to say so. When I see my friend act out only to pull back in shame and guilt. When I interact with people at work and struggle not to reach out a hand and say, “Just be you… I promise to be me, in return.”

I don’t know why the process of human domestication requires denial of vital parts of ourselves.

Maybe the stress and exhaustion of work everyday is not in the tasks or the cleverness demanded by the roles we play. Maybe it is from the shimmying in and out of these necessary performances. Maybe our greatest fetes as humans is not in exhibiting consciousness but in the continuous acting and performance we do and pass off as living life.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I making it sound — gosh I am obsessed with the story behind the story, aren’t I?

I wonder who will serve up “Can I be me?” face today.

Channeling the happy thoughts

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Today was a rough day for me.  I was basically okay but had a case of melancholia.  I was very happy when my nap on the couch went by slowly and time didn’t zip through as it usually does. I woke up from my nap without a panic or anxiety so that was great! But I couldn’t explain this sunken feeling.

When I have the blues, if I can explain the source, I am more likely to ride the wave faster.  But I couldn’t pin this one down.

Usually, it is part longing for someone to be with me on lazy Sunday afternoon.  Part of it is loneliness and the tension of walking a space where I desire the alone time too.  Part of it is despair because I can’t figure our fast enough what I want.  Part of it is wondering if this is all that life has to offer.  Part of it is playing victim, part of it is fatigue, part of it is the neurotic brain, and part of it is… just exhausting.

And even after all that, I couldn’t understand why I had this feeling of emotional distress. I couldn’t journal it away. I couldn’t screen it away – you know, watch enough Netflix episodes of a show and put myself in a catatonic state. I tried a couple of empowering thoughts.  A half-ass attempt at meditation.  I tried to get into a quick HIIT workout.  But then there not enough that I could do.

And so I gave in to the sadness and waited for it to seep out of my pores.

It was a long day.

 

On brave new things

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So I did something so brave today and it was totally not what I expected.  In this space that I voluntarily led myself, I was completely and truly vulnerable and I am not sure that I enjoyed it.

I was able to really confront myself and I am not sure I liked what I saw reflected back.

All these people who claim self love is natural clearly have not been brought up around religion, tradition, and societies built wholly on expectations that serve only to carmoflauge reality.

My experience is that it is so hard to love myself because of all these expectations I have.  And truly seeing myself is even harder.  I am more than happy to pretend that I embrace myself even when I know that my heart is far behind my mind.  And when I know that the struggle of adulthood is to make sure that mind-heart alignment is right.

What’s even harder is when what your mind believes is so much farther from what your heart reflects back.  Or to be in space where your inner person is so separated and distanced and far away from your physical self.  And to be in a place where your rational mind is so completely aware that correction to balance and alignement is a life principle – so it’s better to act than be forced to act.

Oh the fear. I am afraid.

But perhaps I am also brave.