the return

I had a blog for years. This one, in fact. I can't remember exactly when, or why, but I deleted the page and all its content a few years ago, likely at a time of struggle or euphoria; this is when I tend to purge things.

In light of my recent struggles with anxiety I have been thinking about the role of creative expression in my life. As a child, I was never without a book. I kept journals throughout elementary and into middle school. And I was always drawing. It makes sense that these are the activities that remain as touchstones in a life marked by loss and seismic change. However, the past several years, as I have dealt with some of the worst anxiety of my life, I have struggled to maintain any consistency when it comes to writing and illustration. Even with reading, which I am always doing, I experience peaks and troughs: when I first moved to Los Angeles, for example, I frequented the Edendale Library, taking out three or four books at a time; currently, I am reading two or three books at once, and it is slow going with each of them.

Perhaps it is that, when my mind is so preoccupied with intrusive thoughts, rumination, doomsday scenarios, shame, and anxiety, I more easily give in to the impulse to hide away from the world. I would liken it to a rat's reaction to wide, open space: she shivers with fear and stands, frozen, taking in the hugeness of the room about her, and with a sudden rush of movement she escapes to the tightest corner, compacting her body with her face to the wall.

Interesting that I've chosen this metaphor for how it feels when my anxiety is run amok. In high school, one of my favorite albums was The Mars Volta's De-Loused in the Comatorium. The song "Son et Lumíere" articulated how I felt then, as sometimes I do now:

I need sanctuary in the pages of this book / Gestating with all the other rats... / I am of pockmarked shapes / The vermin you need to loathe

Maligned, dispensable, misunderstood. Sure, I've made it worse for myself sometimes. I am so quick to assign meaning to my intrusive thoughts, which represent the actual opposite of my core values and personal history. For this, I am trying to hold more patience and kindness for myself, as rumination is the current bane of my existence, cutting into everything I love and value. Nothing is sacred when your brain is primed for anxiety, especially when you never learned how to regulate your emotions as a child - in addition to never having your feelings or perspectives validated. My former therapist referred to this as my "learning history," one of the better explanations I've found for the way my central nervous system is primed for apocalyptic thinking.

I will end by attempting to describe the most harrowing aspect of these intrusive thoughts. They inspire in me a very convincing doubt: that, yes, I will become all of the things I hate, or that my life is a lie, or my intentions and desires are the opposite of what I have thought them to be. Imagine the torment this can cause. It is a normal feature of human psychology that demented, depraved, violent, or otherwise immoral thoughts rise from the depths of the subconscious into the wakeful mind. For those of us with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive tendencies, however, these thoughts illicit an immediate and powerful fear response, causing us psychic and physical pain.

When these thoughts are at their most powerful I feel shame and guilt for things I have never done and never would do; I discount the entirety of my life thus far, trading out decades for an instant; and I become stuck in a loop of acute fear of abandonment and loss. But knowing this gives me power and perspective, despite how hard it can be.

So, I suppose I'm returning to this online journal for myself, as an outlet for my anxiety, and as a way to remain committed to engaging with - as opposed to withering away from - my struggles. I no longer wish to be at war with myself. Lucky for me that I have a loving partner who is kind, honest, and so completely supportive of me that merely his presence in a room cuts through the fat of my doubt, whittling it nearly to the bone; the love and appreciation I feel for him can not be overstated (thank you, my love). I also have a sister who can relate, and who gives her time and energy to me even though she also struggles with similar issues; she is my best friend and confidante. And to the women in my life who love me no matter what, who fully believe in my ability to overcome these struggles, I am eternally grateful for you. You know who you are.

This writing will be an act of radical self-love.