to begin again

I’m sitting at my office desk, slowly packing for a flight I have later this evening, having just read a few of the comments a letter I wrote to Kona, our beloved dog that died in August.

I have a thing about re-reading things I’ve previously published, especially something so deeply personal as saying goodbye to the creature you gave your entire heart to for the past however many years.

And while I didn’t re-read the piece I wrote yesterday, I did read the comments and my heart filled with something unexpected—something hopeful and promising and warm: not alone, never alone, always loved.

When something is so never-ending. So vast and messy and awful and heartbreaking, the attempts you might make at trying to make sense of it, can sometimes only send you further inside yourself. At least, that’s been my experience, and in these moments, it’s important for me to remember that this cannot be measured up against or compared to anyone else’s grief. That this is yours to do with what you will and what you need because the things you are feeling are unique to you and are not necessarily mean’t to make sense to anyone else.

And so, with the encouragement of my husband, I wrote. I wrote because part of this experience for me is writing. Is moving myself through moments and memories and reminding myself that I might not feel ok right now, but I will be ok because he taught me how to be ok. Because I promised him I would be. That I would keep living with all of my big emotions. That I would keep crying at every little thing. That I would do the things that scare me and that bring me joy. That I would continue to tell stories of Kona the hippo to anyone that wishes to listen.

I am scared. I’m scared to live fully and share the things I write even though I want to write, I always want to write, but the idea of criticism has me sprinting in the other direction. To say just kidding, I didn’t want those things and I can’t do this. I can’t make things that last and inspire and mean something. What I keep forgetting to remind myself is that: as long as it matters to me, it’s worth doing. 

While I don’t put the blame on this particular experience, having a mental illness diagnosis shake up my world at 30-years-old didn’t leave me feeling especially confident in myself. In fact, the process of paying such close attention to my mental well-being, moods, sleep patterns, and creative bursts, had me looking for all the ways in which I should be afraid of them. That I should restrain myself from doing too much of anything. That I should look at my enthusiasm or creativity as problem to be contained, fixed. 

And while gaining a better understanding of my mental state has allowed me to experience a new-found stability, a stability that has brought me safety and peace and a sense of control, it has also left me feeling unsure and wobbly in my relationship to creating. To sharing. To not wanting to distance myself from the work I put out there in case it backfires or blows up in my face, and so I duck around the corner to watch and wait and wait for something to not work out because it’s easier to tell myself that something isn’t going to work out than to dare to imagine it will.

The idea of sharing scares me and the emptiness of not sharing scares me more, so I might as well begin with the lesser of two evils, no?

Which is what leads me to beginning again. No matter the reason or the amount of time away from a creative project/work/relationship/etc., the act of picking it back up can feel messy and complicated, likely in part due to said new life experience (whether it is something you sought out or something unexpected).

Feeling something differently to how you did before, then asking yourself to do something you did before with all these new feelings is inherently uncomfortable…anyways, I am talking about everything all at once, when really what I’m trying to say is: sometimes feeling differently upon your return to something isn’t a bad thing. It’s just a very normal thing that happens as you change your mind, move through obstacles, experience life’s rocky bits, and so on.

So while I am very unclear on most things, I do know that I would like to keep creating, especially when I find it terrifying (because I think it’s in that place that I’ll slowly, slowly begin to believe in myself again).

Fingers crossed.

Talk soon,
Chloe

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