Tag Archives: inspiration

Before Therapy

I’m about to go to my therapy appointment.

Feeling a bit… shall we say… internal, today.

Self-analyzing, philosophical. Quiet.

I’m also truly there again.

Not completely, it’s only a minor slope. But it’s a definite downward lull.

 

Dead.

Void.

Don’t care.

But then again, I do.

Why else would I feel on edge?

 

Depression and anxiety feed off of one another, trapping me between a rock and a hard place. An immovable object against an unstoppable force.

 

I’m find joy in multiple things today.

I do.

I feel joy in the lesson I’m about to prepare.

Joy in the donut I’m going to eat after I get back from therapy.

Joy in the book I have to read.

The dog staring up at me with big brown, curious, loving eyes.

My family.

Joy itself.

Life itself.

The options, choices to be made.

The possibility that I could work on my writing today.

 

Even though I probably won’t.

I don’t have any energy. It’s not just physical. Emotional energy. I’m out of it. I’m not certain if its depression, anxiety, or ME/CFS. Perhaps all of them at once. But I’m drained of the ability to move, motivation, energy in general. The strength to lift my limbs. The world is a murky pool of molasses, my body a thick, awkward figure of solid iron and cotton balls.

Not of desire. I’m not robbed of that. I want to create. To work on my writing. To piece together my lesson. I feel inspired.

 

What’s the point of all this blogging stuff going on here?

Is this post relevant?

Is it pointless?

Am I complaining, yammering, going on and on about myself?

Or am I connecting?

I’m not entirely certain.

 

I have these moments.

Where I’m outside of myself.

Wondering, what am I doing?

 

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The Rise

I’m tired of making sense. It’s like I’ve got to stretch to fit and it’s not working. Life doesn’t always make sense. Why should I bend over backwards, crane my neck, and break blood vessels in my eyes just to make it all appear flawless and put together? Nothing is perfect or flawless. I was right when I began; I can take all of this. Only, my definition of “this” has changed. I can take whatever I need to. And I realize what I need isn’t the world spinning. To let go is to cry from my lungs, to let my soul shiver in the darkness, the cold that seeped in. To let go is to warm with the silence seeping from inside me until I can feel it, wiping away the pain.

I said something on twitter the other day that didn’t make sense. I do that. I speak sometimes without understanding myself, where it came from, this nonsense. What I think is really happening is I’m escaping through fissures. I’m breaking and its saving my life.

“Something witty. Something lovely. Something inspiring. I don’t know. I know the silence hiding within, trying to pour out into my skin.”

“When the silence spills into my lungs, I think it’s time to hear it.”

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What Must is What Will Come

I have a lot to be thankful for.

I find that my conditioned way of seeing the world, my situations, others, and myself, is thusly:

I focus on the fear.

It’s said that everything stems from either fear or love.

This brings to mind the Chinese character for crisis. Coincidentally, I searched my blog to see if I’d spoken on it before, and what do ya know? I have. Three years ago, on Thanksgiving.

I love what this time of year does for me.

I examine myself. I remember myself.

 

Chinese character for crisis is written with two different characters. Danger and Opportunity.

The way I see life: the danger. I don’t see the opportunity. I don’t feel love, I feel fear. (I don’t mean I don’t feel love, I mean I don’t default to a place of love; serenity and peace. I default to fear; panic and misery, apprehension and doubts.)

Why I do this is no longer my main focus. I’ve picked my past apart and consistently try to see it for what it is. I’ve let go of a lot of resentment. I’m still trying to let go of the bitter cage clamped tight around my rib cage.

But I’m aware it’s there and I’m working on it. That’s the whole point. I can’t undo damage done. Even if it wasn’t my fault, the damage now belongs to me and is my responsibility to work with.

 

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More and more, I’ve been pointing out to myself the love, the opportunity.

But I find the more I work on adopting healthy outlooks and beliefs and faith – the tighter the old me clamps down on my lungs and the more misery life digs up.

So this Thanksgiving, while I struggle with anxiety, panic attacks, and a strange, subtle, and pervasive depression – I want to focus on the love. The opportunity crisis provides me. The things I’m thankful for, of which there are many.

I want to celebrate my success.

Because in some moments, I’m beginning to realize that my changing is a constant success. I may not feel it completely yet, but awareness and hope come before acceptance.

 

“There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands.”

~ Richard Bach

 

This Thanksgiving, instead of feeling miserable and self-disgusted because I haven’t reached perfection – I want to focus on picking through my life in a different manner.

I want to find all the positive changes I’ve gone through and lived through and brought to life.

I want to search for all my gratitude and find reasons to be grateful for myself as well as my life outside of myself.

This Thanksgiving, I want to smile because I’ve gained, through a lot of hard work, hope that I can lean on, instead of falling back into fear.

 

I’ve gained a second job. One I like as opposed to my first job, which just wasn’t for me.

I have an amazing, understanding boss.

My family. Look at the misery we’ve survived and continue to live through. Look at our hidden strength, which I think we often times take for granted. We’re stronger than we realize. Even though right now we mainly feel hurt.

I have new friends. Souls who understand and accept me. We understand our shared struggles, even as we live separate lives.

I finished Blair’s first novel after two years of not writing. I sent out to critique partners. I’m not afraid. What must, is what will come of it.

And can I back up here? I started writing again. My passion and identity as a writer newfound and settled into my bones, my skin, the rushing of blood through my veins. I’ve made writing a priority. Because I’ve become aware of how vital, how important it is to who I am.

I have learned I have the right to say no. I haven’t quite acquired the courage in most cases, but I’m working on that.

I’ve learned that I can say yes when its truth, even if it might hurt a little at first.

I’ve learned that I exist and I have every right to exist. I don’t need to seek validation for my desire, my urge to live a life I can identity as my own.

And mistakes? I can learn from those. I do. It hurts, but I learn. Mainly, I’m learning that everyone makes them and I don’t need to make myself out to be a devil when all I did was forget that I can’t fix others.

 

My health has gotten worse and I’m just plain confused with my life.

But this pain has taught me something, is still teaching me something.

Just take it one day at a time – one hour at a time if need be, one minute at a time – breathe, and focus on hope.

Maybe my health is also improving. I feel better.

Thanksgiving is such a great reminder.

Even if I forget to remember these new healthy beliefs and behaviors, they’re still here, slowly embedding into my psyche and soul.

There is so much beauty in the world.

And what I focus on, is what I magnify in my day-to-day life.

 

 

This Thanksgiving, I challenge you to dig up all the dirt, all the memories, all the tears and smiles and indifference, spread it out, and peer through it. Find what you’re grateful for.

I’m going to attempt the very same.

 

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Me, My Muse, and I

As writers – no, as any creative type out there in this insane asylum world – I think we’re insulting ourselves when we talk about capturing and keeping a muse.

There is no muse.

There is you.

You creative.

You’re inspired, you’re helped by a Higher Power if you believe in such things (a deity, the universe, a spark of something, whatever you believe), you work hard, and enjoy it, and you write (or do whatever your brand of creativity is).

You don’t yank some robe wearing, fancy-shmancy, cocktail drinking, snobbish, childish, prudish, or sensually enslaving chick out of the ether and chain her to your desk. You don’t capture a muse. You don’t lure a muse. You don’t entice, beg to attend to you, leave food out for, sit around and wait for, write until you hope it’ll show up – a muse.

YOU put in the work.

You capture inspiration that works for you.

You find time, you find a reason, you enjoy, you feel driven – to write.

You write until you feel that magic. You write when you don’t feel it.

You do all of this.

 

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I’m not trying to offend anyone who believes in finding their muse.

I simply think we’ve taken it way too freaking far. It’s gone from metaphoric to depressing.

It’s our responsibility to create the stories in our head into something magickal, fierce, lovable. We should get the credit for putting in the work.

I think we deserve to think better of ourselves.

We don’t need to wait for someone/something out of our control to saunter on in, decide we’re worth her/his time all of sudden, and lend a hand.

 

If a muse exists, it’s you. Its inside you. I’m not talking multiple personality disorder (which by the way is now DID). I’m talking you.  If you want to use it metaphorically, go right ahead. But I’m tired of people talking like they’re not the amazingness behind their amazingness. We all draw inspiration from the world and people around us. But we’re the one dedicating time to what we’re doing.

So, if you must believe in a muse. Believe you’re your own muse.

 

I wrote this a few days ago when I entertained (for about half a day) the idea of writing one blog post a day in Rara’s November #nanopoblano. (I think I’d run out of things to talk about and probably get real boring. For some reason, I really like the idea of trying anyway.)

Anywho – afterward, I opened up “Zen in the Art of Creativity” by Ray Bradbury and started reading the next essay. Which happened to be on the ever-elusive muse.

In my opinion, his essay backs up my crazy ranting. To feed your muse is to always be hungry for life. Your muse is a collective of everything you’ve absorbed and stored. If I’m reading it correctly.

 

Meaning, your muse isn’t some creature you keep chained in the basement after you lure it and bash it over the head.

Your muse is everything which inspires you. Every breath you take in while you’re imagining. Your muse is every childlike awe. Every memory filled with angst or wonder.

Your muse is you. The hidden you. The real you. The you that screams inside your skull and heart when the fake you is speaking through a mask.

Your muse is inside you, behind your rib cage, peering out, waiting.

So stop selling yourself short.

If you want to feed your muse, figure out what you’re hungry for.

 

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Something Unfinished

Sometimes you find people who are extraordinary.

That would be Rarasaur.

Just reading something on her blog is enough to stir inspiration, gratitude, optimism on even the most sullen, miserable, depressing, painful days. I’m writing this on one of those days. See? Proof.

She recently put up a list, a challenge, of 30 things to do on your social media of choice.

Her original post and first #Somethingist is here. Check it out! And maybe join in. 😉

https://rarasaur.com/2016/08/02/somethingist/

And I quote:

I’d love to see your somethings, wherever or however they be…

  1.  Something unfinished 2.    Something unlikely 3.    Something true 4.    Something invisible 5.    Something damaged 6.    Something possible 7.    Something displaced 8.    Something shocking 9.    Something substantial 10.    Something fragile 11.    Something temporary 12.    Something surprising 13.    Something strong 14.    Something illuminated 15.    Something dangerous 16.    Something secret 17.    Something foretelling 18.    Something obvious 19.    Something celebratory 20.    Something repaired 21.    Something terrifying 22.    Something lucky 23.    Something suspicious 24.    Something healing 25.    Something silly 26.    Something far 27.    Something near 28.    Something open 29.    Something closed 30.    Something overdone

Challenge accepted.

 

Something Unfinished

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This is what a writer’s desk is supposed to look like, in my opinion.

When caught in the rush of research.

When fumbling through the folders of ideas, stray thoughts, array of disorderly characters, traces of madness, wee plot bunnies bounding about – all circling your mind. A whirlwind of grounding inspiration and, for me, life blood. I know that last sounds a bit dorky, but it’s true for me.

I don’t’ feel alive if I’m not writing. If I’m not lost in a story, weaving threads through this scene and the next, nosing along this character, watching her take off in leaps and bounds.

Writing isn’t just something I do to deal with life, to cope with my reality.

It is how I live. How I breathe. It’s how I can move through the waters of life without feeling I’m drowning, alone, and no one cares. In fact, some might point and laugh.

Writing rights all of that. All the injustice in my reality. All the pain.

I didn’t realize it until just recently – but writing is what gets me through. My life lights up like something to be lived, to be enjoyed, when I write.

 

Perhaps a writer’s desk doesn’t need to have specifically what I do. And mine certainly changes from day to day. Messy to organized. Binders and books to simply my laptop and an open word document.

That’s not the point.

The point is, there are writing tools on my desk. I am actively using it to expand the landscapes in my heart.

The point, is to write so I can be fulfilled. So I can slip into myself like a spirit into flesh.

The point is to write so that I can become real.

 

And so what is unfinished?

My novel. Blair’s story.

I’ve finally brought myself back to writing.

I’d like to finish this novel. Finish the edits, read it over and decide if it’s solid, then send it out to critique partners. Soon after that, I’ll be sending to literary agents. (Even typing that has me excited all over again.)

It’s an unfinished story.

And that is not something I want to leave in the dark recesses of my soul.

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Steps Forward, Steps Backward

I feel like I’m taking one step forward and two steps back.

Driving me insane!

Well, more insane than I already am, but you get my drift. *twitch* ;D

 

Someone took us to the movies this past week and I really liked the movie. Though it was dark and hopeless at times, the largest overtone and theme of the movie was hope. Basically, the perfect movie for me.

I left the movie and for the first time in a very long time (*ahem* years), I had

*that*

feeling.

 

The one I’m sure all creators know in some way or another.

It’s hard to describe, but I’ll give it a try.

It’s a good, excited, creativeness.

I feel alive. Vitally burning, arms flung wide, begging the world to hear me, to run through me, to guide me, to open me up and let me see again. Not just any world but that world, the one running like a stream through my head and heart, folded inside the contours of my soul. Where the strange and the broken but strong reside. All that I create. The world where I create, come up with ideas, scenarios.

And for one amazing moment, I can fly, I can soar, arms flung wide open to something better than me. Better than pain and all that’s wrong with me.

Where everything is perfect. Where I’m the child who escapes, the writer, the inspired creator who is both realistic and an idealist with her head in the clouds. The Unashamed Creator.

*That* feeling is where I can breathe. I’m passion blazing, where nothing can break me, inspired, confident. Enough. Where I am enough.

And I’m more than enough. I’m me. I can change the world, I can lift the broken and rid the streets of disgust and outrage of the wrongly powerful.

Everything was right as rain. Home.

I was home.

 

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And then, I clamped down on it.

I’d reached the end of my chains and my conditioned behaviors yanked me back into “reality”.

SHUT UP, DAPHNE! Stop acting like a childish, loser. Get real. Grow up. Be in control of your emotions, feelings, thoughts, wants. None of this wishy – washy, head in the clouds, fantasizing. How stupid that you pretend like a toddler fantasizing in your head. How pathetic. Stand up, be rigid, in control. Be useful.

 

And the feeling – *that* feeling – it was gone.

I realized something right that moment.

I realized something that night.

It saddened me. Now I don’t feel anything in particular about it. But you’ll understand why in a moment.

 

ONE

I realized what I’m really doing by “clamping down” on my “useless emotions”.

I’m telling myself to stop feeling.

The part of me, which is in control, says “shut up, be real, stop dreaming like a child”.

It’s a smoke screen.

Be mean enough and I won’t poke at it, right?

In reality (ironic, right?), I’m telling myself to stop feeling anything. Except – definitely keep feeling shame and wrong for feeling.

When I clamped down on that feeling, I shoved all emotion away. If I look close enough, I can see just how numb I am to everything but pain and self-hate.

 

TWO

When I came home from that movie, something happened- and I have no idea what or how- that allowed me to get past my own walls, find a weak link in my armor, and get through to the life deep inside that I’ve forsaken to solitude and silence.

I found it. I felt alive. I felt real.

But then doubt niggled in.

And when I clamped down on it, a part of me deep down wanted to sob, cry out.

I’d ripped the fire inside out and flung it nowhere in particular. So long as I couldn’t feel its warmth.

I left myself hollow, empty. In pain. Numb.

 

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FORWARD

I feel Blank.

No wonder I haven’t written a word, allowed myself to listen to music, or done anything mildly creative in over a month now.

I’m so numb I don’t even see it.

Even now, writing about it. It was only yesterday and yet I can’t remember what it felt like. I’m simply typing what I wrote in my journal yesterday. Eight hours after it happened I couldn’t even remember.

 

How did it happen? How’d it get through? Why?

I’d been particularly vulnerable yesterday, gummy, and easily harmed (enough to make me carry an ax and glare at everyone who came within three feet of me). So was it the vulnerability? Not having that armor up and in perfect condition?

Or was it the combination of darkness and hope in the movie?

Or both?

I don’t know.

But I consider yesterday a win. Not only did it somehow get through, but I recognized it for what it was, realized I’ve been (and continue to) smother any and all inspiration, and identified my need to STOP.

Not that it’s gotten me anywhere. But I have to realize I’m NOT going anywhere before I can START going somewhere. ……. Makes so much sense. 0.o

So, two steps forward and only one back.

Yay me!

 

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As a side note, I’m really not liking this being honest thing. It sucks, being vulnerable. Don’t like it. One bit.

So be nice to me.

Don’t blow rainbows up my skirt or throw bunnies at me, but don’t try to bash my head into the wall either.

I’ll stab you. Repeatedly.

😀

 

Any creative types know what on earth I’m going on about? What does “that feeling” feel like to you?

Anybody else feel stuck wobbling on the steps?

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Hate and Deprive

Do you ever just start questioning everything in your life?

 

Why do I do this?

Why did I think that?

Why do I waste my time on that?

How dare I take time to do that – and anyway, why do I?

What’s the point in this?

Yada, yada, yada.

You get the point.

 

Recently- okay that’s a lie.

For  a while now, I’ve been questioning myself on why on earth I think it’s okay for me to take time out of my day to read a book – something I enjoy – *gasp*!

How dare I!

How selfish!

 

Self hate is a pretty strong accusation so for the sake of you guys not living inside my head and knowing everything that goes on there, we’re just going to go with, I’ve been depriving myself of pretty much everything I enjoy.

Why?

Because I’d feel guilty, bad, wrong, selfish, like a horrible person, if I spent any time taking care of myself.

It’s like I’m depriving myself of love.

Not allowing myself to be happy or do anything simply because I’d like to.

 

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But I’m only skimming the surface just yet, so let’s keep it to what I’ve discovered so far.

 

Last week, I was in a lot of pain (medical issues, don’t worry, I’m not missing any limbs), and it hurt to lie down in bed, even though I was exhausted.

I’m lying there, praying for sleep, wishing against wish that I could wink out of consciousness and fall onto the pillow of being unaware.

And the thought pops into my head –

Why not grab my book, go in the kitchen and read?

 

At this point, even my “hate and deprive yourself” programming couldn’t break into my pain induced thoughts, and so I got up quietly, grabbed the book I’d been sipping (because I hadn’t really sat down and read in quite a while) and went into the living room/kitchen, turned on the light, sat against the wall, and read.

For a few hours.

At about one in the morning, I broke my awareness away from my book and looked at the clock. Deciding to go to bed, I realized I felt better. Happier. Calmer.

 

For a few hours I’d ignored the pain, hadn’t even been aware of it.

For a few hours I’d not felt like an emotional wreck. I’d felt kinda good, actually.

And then it clicked.

All the questioning I’d been doing – why do I allow myself to selfishly waste time and read a book when I could be working on something I need to get done? Never mind that I couldn’t sleep. Never mind that I wasn’t being productive lying in bed and becoming more and more miserable as sleep evaded me. Why did I think it was okay to take time to do something that would simply make me happy?

 

Because it makes me happy.

It gives me some peace.

Reading allows me to escape reality for a little while. It takes me somewhere else.

I read for the love of stories. For the amazing thing that happens when I disappear into another world.

 

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And it made me realize that even on small levels like this, I’ve been punishing myself for doing anything that makes me happy.

Now, I’m sure I’ve said that before. But I’ve blurred the lines of boundaries and my rights as a human being so badly that saying that hasn’t really sunk in, made any sense.

Last week, it made sense. I went from, “uh, yeah, sure, I’m aware that I do that” to “oh, I accept that I’ve been doing this, it’s bad, and I need and want to stop if I want to be happy and healthy”.

 

Did this magically make my bad habit of feeling guilty and hating on myself if I wanted to/did read for a little while?

No, of course not.

I’m a human. Humans are stubborn and it’s hard to break habits, good or bad.

But at least I’m working on it now.

And anytime that not so little voice tells me that I’m horrible for taking time to read – I smother it!

 

Here’s for continued vigilance to that end…

 

 

 

(***A note to my readers. If I haven’t responded to your comments yet, rest assured – I will. I have read and I love your comments!)

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