As the world welcomed 2015, I was at home in the kitchen with my mom and cousin having a major anxiety attack. I was 28. I remember trying to remain composed, but more importantly, I remember trying to remain standing.
I leaned back against the stove for support as a painful wave of anxiety held me in between the narrow space that divides conscious and unconscious. "Mom, I think I'm getting sick," I said breathlessly. I folded into my mother's nervous arms as my cousin encouraged me to breathe in an effort to keep me from hitting the floor. It worked.
This was not anything new. I was 13 years old when anxiety and depression entered my world and smacked me in the face--actually, the illness replaced me. I was no longer in focus when I looked in the mirror and I didn't like or recognize the flesh and bone staring back at me. I started pulling out my hair in nervous fits and I could not shake the urge to cry all the time. I went into treatment soon after, and to this day I don't remember what life was like before I did not have at least one psychologist somewhere on standby.
By the time I reached my 20s, my health had been flawless, but in 2010 I learned that a large tumor had invaded my abdomen. My world stopped. I was poked and prodded for months leading up to my diagnosis, and weakened emotionally in the process. Afterwards I fell into a personal crisis of sorts. I was unable to work, living at home with my mom, and doubting my ability to succeed in life in general. I was not happy, and I sank into the deepest depression of my life. I severed ties with society and my days were spent fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and cry--a battle I always seemed to lose. I stopped talking to my friends. I stopped going out. I stopped doing all the things I loved--one of which, was creating.
Creativity has always been a friend of mine. When I was a child, if I did not like the way a story ended I would re-write it in one of my journals. In my edits, Little Red Riding Hood and her Grandmother always outsmarted the wolf, Humpty Dumpty was made of plastic, and Sleeping Beauty had immunity to spinning wheels. I fell in love with writing in the process and it helped me feel centered during my turbulent teenage years. Back then I did not always feel like creating, but I pushed myself. So I did the same as an adult after nearly collapsing on the floor that night in my mother's kitchen. It was not easy, but I needed something to catapult me out of bed in the morning. At the time a good day for me was finding the strength to get out of bed and place both feet on the floor without wanting to cry at the realization of another day. I yearned for something outside of myself to focus on--something strong enough to override an overload of negative feelings.
I took up abstract painting after reading about its kind effect on the mind. Painting awarded me with another way to express myself creatively. I found it soothing. Turning a blank canvas into a thing of beauty calmed my spirit. Creativity awakened the desire to be more conscious, and alive. I had no clue how to paint, but the more I practiced the lighter I felt. Painting provided me with a sense of equilibrium, which is something we all strive for in our minds, in our bodies, and in our lives. The only glitch here is that life is far from perfect making complete equilibrium hard to sustain--but it is there when I create, and especially when I write.
No matter how far I stray I always seem to return to my love of writing. When I was younger I entertained the idea of creating stories and books, but I doubted my ability to write and actually complete a book. The concept seemed nearly impossible to my young mind and quite honestly, to my adult mind as well. I've read numerous books over the years, and each time I finished a story I would always sit in awe of the author's ability to complete such an accomplishment. I knew I wanted to write books, but I knew very little about the logistics of writing so I took the advice of Stephen King and read every book I could get my hands on. Books have always fascinated me and in my quest to be more creative I became a voracious daily reader.
My interest in literature grew as I absorbed the individual prose and talent of authors Charles Bukowski, William Faulkner, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Vladimir Nabokov, Cormac McCarthy and David Foster Wallace, to name a few. I was under the impression that reading and re-reading their material would turn me into a writer, and of course this is not true. Writers are born in the writing, and I had not written in years. I was depressed and a little insecure about what I was doing, but I told myself that I could stop anytime I wanted to. If the urge to write stopped pulling at my heart daily, I would let it go and get back into bed--no pressure, but that never happened. I felt that pull first thing in the morning and right before I went to sleep at night. It made getting out of bed somewhat easier.
Writing provided me with something of substance to pour into my days. I was able to focus my attention on something I loved instead of sitting around drowning in my feelings. Each day I dedicated at least 3 hours to writing, anything and everything. When I was not writing, I was falling deeper in love with books and the authors themselves. I'm drawn to authors with flaws, like myself. I wanted to learn from them, but a part of me was also searching for something in them that was identical to something in me, to assure myself that in the end I too would be okay.
For instance, author David Foster Wallace was a brilliant man, but to his detriment he was deeply critical of himself. His work challenged me to think bigger and to dive beyond the surface when I wrote. Personally he taught me how dangerous it is to be excessively hard on yourself. Charles Bukowski became something of a literary uncle to me--the one your mom hides the alcohol from before he comes over to the house to visit. He was a fan of the drink and he could be rough, but under that brute exterior of his was the soul of a poet who wished for the ability to love himself. I understood this. I admired his honesty, his rawness, and his wit. He had the ability to convey massive depth with just a few words, and I held on tightly to each one of them. On the other hand, Cormac McCarthy taught me that comparison is a true happiness killer. He's one of those writers who after reading their work makes you want to toss all of your written work out the window in defeat--but his efforts illustrated that everyone has their own way, and each path is unique and custom made for the assigned individual.
There was one author in particular who helped me fill in the spaces where I lacked peace as a writer, and as a person. For Charles Bukowski, it was John Fante. For me, it was Anne Lamott. I first heard of Ms. Lamott when I attended the annual Austin Film Festival in 2013. I wrote and submitted a script called THE DEL TORO JOB to the screenplay competition. I did not win, but I gained something else. Actress Susan Sarandon spoke at one of the panels I attended, and afterwards she encouraged all aspiring writers to read a book called BIRD BY BIRD, by Anne Lamott. I checked the book out from my local library immediately. In BIRD BY BIRD, Lamott opens up about the frustrations she's encountered as a writer and the occasional setbacks she's experienced in her personal life. Her revelations made my uncertainty as a writer, and my difficult internal happenings seem ordinary. After reading her book I felt as if I was not alone in the complex process of simply trying to make it in the world.
I do not remember the exact date, but one day I asked myself what I wanted and the answer was simple; to be happy again. There are myriad things that make me happy, but the one thing I knew I had immediate access to, was creativity. So I continued to create. I was still living in my mom's house. I was still unemployed. I was still in pain--but I wrote, I painted, I read, and I eased myself out into the world again where the living began to happen naturally, on its own.