I know I’m being a little dramatic but there was a time before I met him when I felt like something inside me had died…
I had lost all positivity.
I had lost hope.
I had lost my magic.
I had lost a vital source of my life force.
a passion. a flame. a fight.
A part of me felt desert-souled, bitter-hearted, numbed out, haunted.
Nothing seemed to reach me deep enough.
I know this all sounds bleak but please understand that this was not depression in the traditional sense nor was I suicidal. I can assure you that there has never been a single moment in my 42 years of life that I have ever wanted to end it. I feel like I have to stress that because sometimes I may sound a little dark and I don’t want anyone to worry. It was just a time in my life when I thought a little too much about the darkness (which we all have) and not enough about the light.
I still smiled and laughed. I still felt content in my life. I had purpose as a mother.
But in the quiet moments of deep thought, there was just a place in me where I felt gone, vacant…like I was just going through the motions.
A place where a dark sense of nihilism had won.
Maybe this is the real danger of the mundane, the disease that seeps into your aura when you’re not paying attention. It calcifies the creative mind and corrodes your soul with rules and materialism and capitalism and pretense and everything shallow and fake and pretend. I was lost to it.
Then I discovered him. I say “discovered” because he was indeed a discovery, of epic proportions, on so many levels.
He reignited that fire in me. He gave me something to strive for, to hope for. He got my juices flowing, in more ways than one. Creatively, biologically, emotionally. He was my muse. He breathed life back into me, in so many ways. (and made me feel like I was dying in so many ways, as well…let’s not forget that)
But this post isn’t about him….because while he may have sparked my passion again, while he may have fanned it into roaring flames that consumed everything in its path, he was not the creator of my passion. He was not the designer of my inspiration and excitement. He was not the composer of the symphony of love and kindness that I hold inside of me.
All of those things have always come from me. I create them from within.
I just lost sight of them.
And recently, when I lost him, I started to feel this way again. Briefly. Just for a moment. Before I started to realize my truth in the situation.
I try not to have a lot of regrets in my life. I think of them more as lessons than regrets but I will say that throughout my relationship with him, I do have more “regrets” (and lessons) than I have ever allowed myself to have before. Most of those regrets stem from the way I reacted to and treated him at times and the lack of grace and understanding in which I handled some things.
Even so, the most regret didn’t come from losing him…no, I felt mostly sad about losing that passion. I was terrified of falling into that abyss of muted emotions and apathetic living again.
I had a fear of losing my creativity and penchant for poetic words again. Because I found an unexpected comfort and joy in the vulnerability I shared through my words. I think I have a talent for it and it helps me to process my thoughts in a more organized and effective way. It unburdens my soul to write.
For awhile, my fears came true…the words didn’t visit anymore, the inspiration didn’t reverberate through me orgasmically, the ideas didn’t appear, begging to be put on paper….my mind was dull, in a fog, disinterested, void.
And then it all just started flowing back into me.
Over the last few weeks, when I’ve been sitting down to write in my journal, it hasn’t been with the expectation of posting it to the blog or having anyone read it at all. But when I’ve been in that private flow, that mode of creative solitude and deep thought, I feel like I’ve been writing some pretty epic and profound words.
At least they are epic and profound to me. They give me hope and assure me that I am still a writer and still an “artist”, even on the days I get discouraged and feel like I have nothing important to say or on the days that I give in to the trite prose and unoriginal content that is every day life.
It is important to me to be moved by my own thoughts and words but lately, during the fallout with him, I haven’t felt inspired or creative at all.
I have struggled with the absence of that spark. I have been at a loss for any meaningful words. But that is my “thing”….that is the outlet that makes me feel like I’m contributing. And not just writing in general…. no, I want to write profound words, passages that push the envelope and ideas that make people think. I want to dabble in unpopular opinions and things rife with controversy. I want to move souls and change lives with my words. I want to create a pandemic of original thought and divergent rhetoric.
So, in not accomplishing these things, I have felt like a failure. And my need to not feel “lost” when I don’t feel like writing at all has been a driving force in analyzing all of these feelings.
So, I start thinking of all the things that could be holding me back from accessing all my right brained mechanisms. I have blamed it on stress, being busy, inability to focus, etc. I have even doubted my own talent, thinking myself a fraud, considering that anything interesting or meaningful that I have written in the past must have been a fluke.
And of course, I thought it was mostly due to the loss of my muse. I find I am my most creative when I am filled to the brim with some kind of emotion….love, sadness, anger…but in letting him go, I also let go of all that extreme emotion. Yet, I have still struggled to write during the last few months, when my heartbreak was at its most potent. That’s when my creativity should have been boundless but aside from a few heartfelt passages, I haven’t had the desire to write at all. Did my heart break too many times and now I’m just bitter and jaded? (I’ve already established that the bitter-hearted aren’t much good at art). But no, I still feel and love and care and cry and give…..my heart still hopes.
Maybe it was work…all of my brain function and energy being funneled into that vacuous, never satiated belly of society. The 8-5 grind, rinse and repeat, leaving me drained and wondering if I had just entrenched myself too deeply into the muck of mundanity, once again, to emblematize any sort of creative thought anymore. But when I started taking time for and prioritizing myself, that theory was invalidated as well.
I wasn’t quite sure how to fix it or what to do until I realized that my own spark is IN me and UP to me. It’s never really dead…just resting or making room for other priorities. I can’t be on fire all the time or else I’ll burn myself to the ground. By nature, I am a creature of solitude and quiet and I have been ruthlessly inserting myself into the noise and hurriedness of society far too much these days. In everything, there has to be a balance. I know this!! I live this!! I just somehow got into that “all or nothing” way of thinking. Such an unhealthy way to be and it has taken its toll on me for sure.
But now I have managed to find my way out of that sterile hole and create that balance in my world again.
I have resurrected my soul, rekindled my creative spirit, scraped all the hardened apathy from my arteries and I can feel the life spreading through me like wildfire again.