A Glorious Mess

I apologise for not publishing any pages over the last couple of weeks. I have been going through a tough spot which has impacted me emotionally and physically. What I have noticed over the last year is that when I am overwhelmed emotionally or have too much to do and can’t see the end yet, I lose my creativity. Or, perhaps more precisely, my ability to access the stream of creativity that usually pours out of me at a mere thought or a suggestion from another.

This time, my distress was deep enough that it affected me physically. I felt exhausted from what I perceived to be a constant hammering against my very being. I couldn’t sleep properly. I would either wake up to go to the toilet and then start thinking, which meant I couldn’t get back to sleep, or I wouldn’t even manage to get to sleep because of intrusive thoughts. I would lie next to my sleeping husband, feeling very much the tightly coiled spring that authors write about. For me, that meant I couldn’t relax my body enough to fall asleep. I felt like I was lying stiffly and that I was wrapped in tension. I kept moving to find a more comfortable position, but nothing improved. Each time I turned, I felt my jaw click, which is always an indicator that I am tense.

As soon as I woke, if it hadn’t already happened while I was trying to sleep, I would be in tears. The thought of having to continually face a situation that was causing upset resulted in instant deep distress. Not only was the lack of sleep impacting my ability to function, but the constant stress meant I couldn’t concentrate well or hold thoughts in my mind. When I moved, I felt physically tired due to a lack of sleep but also from trying to push through a situation that wasn’t healthy and wasn’t improving. I described the sensation to a friend as feeling though I was wading through mud, and it was trying to pull me back all the time rather than letting me go where I needed to be. I felt heavy as if I was being weighed down by a thick blanket, but without any of the muscular release that usually comes from that pressure.

I had been planning on writing a lot these last few weeks because there’s a competition at the writer’s centre I recently joined, and my goal is to have a go at entering as much as possible so that I can get used to writing for an audience. However, I couldn’t write as freely as I usually do. I couldn’t even think of a topic to write about. I’d started one submission, which a talented friend had given me feedback on. He’d just sent it back with a sample of his own writing to show me how my writing should be structured when this unpleasant situation revealed itself. I still haven’t brought myself to open his response because I couldn’t think clearly enough to edit my own creative words.

I first noticed this creative locking last year. I was working on my Major Creative Work at the same time as a large written assignment. While I was doing both of those, I also had time-sensitive obligations at work and church. I was loving being hyper-creative for the Creativity and Spirituality Unit – I felt like I was truly alive. Another thing I love to do is write Communion talks. Normally I sit down, pray and open myself to Divine Inspiration, and the words just flow. Sometimes I notice something, and I know how to write about that in a way that encourages people to think about Jesus. I’ve never really given much thought to that process because it has always been available when I needed to engage. I’ve even been known to pull my car over (into a safe parking place) so that I can scribble down the words and thoughts that are racing through my brain. This time, however, I had nothing. Absolutely nothing. I explained it to myself as ‘my think is full’. I felt stretched in too many directions, even though all of them were things I enjoyed, and I couldn’t find any extra space to be creative. Once a few things were finished and out of the way, I could access my creativity much more easily.

This new situation I found myself in, though, wasn’t resolving. It wasn’t something I could fix by the submission of an essay. This time the competing pressures were stress, disbelief and shock at the situation I was in, and the revelation that what I thought was a safe place wasn’t. Physical and emotional exhaustion, negative thoughts, constant questioning of the people around me and their motives, and continual distress over the unfairness of what was happening shut down my usual stream of internal entertainment. It was intense, and I couldn’t access my creativity to free myself from it. All I could do was talk, and I did, but I felt like I wasn’t making any sense because what was happening to me didn’t make sense either.

Over the last fifteen years, I have been to many courses regarding the impact of stress and trauma on children and youth. These information sessions generally focus on how difficult it is for young people going through these situations to manage both in school and in society. I didn’t have to think hard to realise that my responses were also a result of stress – and I would go as far as to say trauma, too.  Everything I had been taught about what was I was experiencing – lack of sleep, mental confusion, physical impact from psychological distress, lethargy, and withdrawal. I wasn’t withdrawing because I couldn’t face the world – I was staying away from places because I didn’t want to be amongst other people when I burst into tears over what I believed to be a very unfair situation. I had visited my counsellor and my doctor, and everyone agreed that I wasn’t depressed, but I was experiencing situational anxiety and upset, which then seeped into all the corners of my usual life.

I normally ascribe to having many sectors in my life. Work, church, friends, family, creativity, God (not the same as church!) and singing all form areas of interest and enjoyment. I’d love to have written ‘exercise’ as well, but it wouldn’t have been true, so we’ll leave that conversation for another time. These varied interests form a bit of a safety net – if one isn’t going too well, such as going through a social dry spot, I can still access the others and stay relatively fulfilled. This situation, though, leaked into every area because I couldn’t think well enough, or move fast enough, or stop crying long enough to move into them.

The question is, then, why did this situation matter more than any of the negative situations I’ve found myself in over the years? I pondered that for quite a while and came to the conclusion that this time I felt like someone had taken out my very core, inspected it, found it to be lacking, thrown it to the ground, trampled on it, and then offered it back to me in shreds. It was as if I was running from person to person saying, “Can’t you see me?” and they were turning their backs, one by one. That isn’t really what was happening, but because I wasn’t sure what the real problem was or where it was coming from, I didn’t know anymore who or where was safe. Constantly feeling like I was under attack from unknown assailants who could come from any direction left me unable to maintain my usual equilibrium.

I am sure the next question is whether this situation has resolved itself now because clearly I am sitting here writing. The answer is ‘sort of’. I don’t need it to be fully resolved to be able to regain some sense of who I am and what I’m doing. What I needed was to know who was on my side. Because, in everything, you need a support team – people you know you can talk to who will uphold the good things they know about you and that you believe about yourself. People who will agree with you that what you are experiencing isn’t fair or right. People who will help you find enough of yourself again to stand up a bit longer and speak a bit louder so that you get heard. Sometimes, just people who will say ‘I love you’, even if that’s all they can do. That is enough. Often, the people who turn out to be your support team are not the ones you would have thought they were, but that is perfectly okay with me. It has been a positive experience finding out that some of the quieter voices in my life are the ones who see through the dreaddies and bright clothing and recognise who I am. That has been a wonderful revelation. That is the silver lining I will keep with me from this storm.

I am sure you will have noticed, at this later stage of my post, that more positive words have appeared in my writing. That is how I know I am finding my way back. When I can see the funny little things, notice the kind gestures, or hear the concern in people’s voices, that is when the darker clouds start to retreat. Even if they aren’t really going away, finding out how to stand up against them makes me feel like they have less power over me. I am starting to sleep better and cry less often. I don’t feel the need to dress all in black any more, which I was doing because I felt too dark and weighed down to wear colour. Those who know me well know I express myself through my clothing or jewellery. At my last counselling appointment, I wore a necklace with a cross and the word ‘enough’. For me, it was saying I am enough (because I am who God made me to be), but also that I was good enough – and that I’d had enough!

At that session, the psychologist discussed a coping strategy with me. She suggested I find a creative routine to protect myself from the slurs I felt I was receiving and to be able to shake off whatever was unfairly laid on me. My solution was to visit a toy store and buy a little minifig-style medieval knight. He’s a cute fellow about seven centimetres high, wearing pieces of armour that can be removed and replaced. At the start of the day, I dress him, and as I do so, I recite the elements of the Armour of God as described in Ephesians 6: 10 – 18 (NIV) – the Shoes of Peace, the Belt of Truth, the Breastplate of Righteousness, the Helmet of Salvation, the Sword of the Spirit, and the Shield of Faith. I added a final element simply because he had tiny removable hand shields. I’ve called them The Gauntlets of Grace. At the end of the day, I take off his armour piece by piece so that I can let go of that day’s attacks. He’s then ready for me to dress him again the next day in preparation for protecting myself.

Thankfully the situation I was encountering difficulty with has now been acknowledged, and its impact on me spoken aloud. That helped a great deal. Change takes time, but I feel like I can hold my head up again – quite literally, because it felt too heavy before to do anything more than look at the ground as I walked.

And here I am, writing again. I know I don’t have a huge readership, and that’s fine because I wanted people to find these posts for themselves and read them because they wanted to, not because I directed a heap of people to them by advertising them on my Facebook page. But I still wanted to explain my absence. I also figured I’m not the only person who has to fight for who they are or what they believe to be true, and others might appreciate reading where I’ve been. I truly hope you’re all doing okay.