Much Ado About Nothing
my first amendment right to ramble
Sometimes I worry I can only write when I am sad. There is this terrible fear that happiness might cost my creativity and, if I were to lean too far into joy, I might lose access to language. That without pain there is nothing for me to say. I wonder how much of my suffering is self-inflicted versus an inescapable byproduct of the human condition. Are many of us simply predisposed to bouts of dependable sadness, by genetic and circumstantial factors beyond our control? How culpable are we in the perpetuation of our own misery?
Lately my thoughts have felt scattered and incomplete. It is increasingly difficult to speak with confidence and conversations seem harder to hold. Never mind writing which proves a whole other beast too behemoth to tackle despite the (almost) daily attempts. I find idle musings scribbled into the margins of notepad pages. Love does not conquer most things beside the olive oil and Kleenex. You will see your past in everything until you make peace with it next to the email address of a colleague. The feminine heart is an oracle and time immemorial bulleted beneath a certain hunger and my desire leaks like a sieve.
None of this means anything. These are just lines I have been collecting. A personal altar of non-isms scattered across my digital and physical desks. Fatuous verses I have assigned tenor and a temporary home. One day I will find a permanent place for them. First, I need to figure out my intentions.
I am not particularly sad at the moment and it frenzies me that this might be part of the problem. In all honesty, I have been feeling pretty good and it riddles me with quiet guilt. I am not sure what to do with an optimism that feels misplaced. Isn’t it tone-deaf (if not, downright delusional) to maintain hope in a declining world? Why bother clinging to a fraying rope?
There are over fifty of you reading now and it paralyzes me though I want so badly for this to mean something. The pauses between the letters grow longer, out of fear of disappointing those who are waiting for me to say anything of true importance; the paid subscriptions are indefinitely paused. It would be a robbery to accept anyone’s money when I am not sure I can offer profundity or meaning. I am still unclear as to where this goes, if anywhere at all. The drafts accumulate and undergo countless revisions until the original point and my own interest are lost. My body of work resembling more of a graveyard than an open plot promising life...
It is embarrassing being seen trying new things on for size—it is a little like standing under the garish overheads of a changing room and realizing, in horror, all the mirrors are located out in the waiting area, where everyone else can take stock of your body too. (I’m looking at you Aritzia). I don’t exactly love the amount of exposure this endeavor permits. The revelation of interior emotion to even the smallest of audiences is daunting, and sometimes one pair of eyes is still too many—mine being the worst of them. I tend to shy from my reflection and haven’t owned a full-length mirror in over four years. This was, at first, by accident and then, at once, understood it was better not having that kind of access to myself.
Things had gotten to a point where I was immobilized by my own unrealistic standards (and inevitable failure to live up to them). My portfolio was another mirror I couldn’t stand to look at. Nothing was good enough. Nothing was where I wanted it to be. It became too painful to write poems or think of plots and, for six months, I stopped watching movies completely. I concluded relief would only come from parting ways with what I loved and nestling into the gears of the machine, but it was silly to think I could fit my dreams inside a cubicle. I pick up part-time jobs when gig work slows and leave them once I have grown too busy or bored, or both. It makes me feel youthful and unserious, and I wonder how none of my old classmates have to do the same despite also being subject to the industry’s ebbs and flows.
I can’t shake the feeling this speaks to some divide between us. The haves and have-nots of… talent? Drive? Luck? I doubt my own intellect and balk at compliments, unsure of how to receive them. Am I meant to hold my palms out with ready acceptance? The unspoken rules of social engagement suggest a casual brush off the shoulders is more appropriate. (People prefer you keep yourself humble.) I would default to the second while secretly on my knees. I needed somebody’s blessing. Somebody’s permission to keep going. I am not sure why it was so hard to grant it to myself.
There is a pubescent allure to the struggling artist archetype. All the agony that comes along with it. The insecurities and self-flagellation, the myopic outlook and injurious devotion. Banking on the fleeting glory following each small win and trying, in vain, to avoid the dopaminergic low soon after that. If it isn’t hard, it isn’t worth it was a mantra that propelled me through the majority of my twenties and one I have not completely done away with. It still rings true to an extent, but that compulsive desire to reach perfection has lessened. It had to. It was lethal.
This has given rise to a new kind of self-consciousness—one further complicated by my rising levels of serotonin. The restrictions I had previously placed on myself loosening in some areas and tightening in others. With the prospect of a more relaxed mind on the horizon I am left questioning the impact losing my “edge” might have on my work. Is a persistent, low-grade depression the pre-requisite for lasting creative success?
Here is the part where I disappoint you. My aim in writing this is to admit the self-help gurus and motivational speakers might have been slimly right. There is a reason why Maslow’s pyramid is designed from the bottom-up. I am certainly not implying covering your basic needs will heal you of anything, but I have been enjoying living more often than not… and feeling more inclined to create as a result. I recognize the implied privilege of taking this position, as well as the fact many people have it way worse with even fewer resources. In any event, I hope you won’t too badly mind my sharing some anecdotal evidence—if only to prove I can still manage words. There is more to this story, of course, but that’s another essay for another day.
It began with the gym, which began as another absurd ideal to strive for. By some miracle it transforms into a sacred ritual—an observance that fills me with easy pleasure even on the days where I have to sit in my parked car for a long time before going in. I discover a deep sense of gratitude for a body that moves well and eat three(ish) meals a day. I had not meant to skip them before, it was just hard to have an appetite with a stomach always in knots.
Next comes drinking, which is abandoned save for “special” occasions. THC swapped for CBD. The hypercritical inner voice takes on a gentler tone too and anxious spirals lessen in frequency and intensity. I cannot say any of these decisions were made with a great deal of consciousness. It was a little like a domino-effect.
On the not-so-good days, which still remain (for ex. today), I cry freely and try not to appoint shame. I read and watch movies and avoid my phone. I find comfort in the cliche reminder “it’s a bad day, not a bad life”, though by many metrics it hasn’t been terrific. This does not erase certain experience or the chemical imbalances I will continue to navigate. I feel more myself than I ever have and, at the same time, hardly recognize the person standing before me. Isn’t it strange how change happens so slowly and then suddenly? I have become an active participant in my own life again and it’s thrilling.
By denying myself the fundamentals I had the luxury of (i.e. food, water, sleep), I was unwittingly reinforcing a core belief that I did not deserve love, success, or respect. The challenge now is how I fit this shifting perspective into the way I approach filmmaking and writing. Can past, present, and future exist at once? I don’t want to believe the only interesting view I have to share is predicated on grief. Not when there is so much else I have seen and done. Not when there is so much I have taken pleasure in and sincerely loved. What if I spoke more of the joyful things instead? The sweetness of living which I know still exists even when everything tastes acrid and bitter.
Or better yet, what if I just wrote about all the things I want to write about instead of scrutinizing myself into silence? Maybe there is freedom to be found in releasing the grip of self-censorship. Maybe I could stand to be a little youthful and unserious. Maybe I shouldn’t mind funny looks from people observing in the waiting area. They’re probably too preoccupied with their own existence to notice mine. Aren’t we all just trying to find what fits like second skin?
There is so much pressure for every take to be morally perfect and correct. To speak in speculative broad-strokes with concern over specificity’s potential to offend. To get it right, all of the time. Please expect nothing of me other than what I present to you. My whims change from day to day and my work will too. I would like to keep making it even when it isn’t very good.
I am aware it is likely neither astute or ingenious to speak of self-love. If anything, it is a little obnoxious. However, there is something to be said for choosing to treat oneself with kindness when it feels like the world will not. If my point of view is the only thing I have any real control over, why should it reinforce the walls I wish to tear down? The sole thought more terrifying than a life without art is a life without contentment. All I have ever wanted was to be happy… and with each passing day it seems like a real possibility.
For the first time in my life, I choose to love the girl reflected back at me and things start to feel a lot easier. I consider buying a full-length mirror.
