Partly Cloudy

I was reading salon.com this morning, which is a shameful habit I've had since 1996 and I had to do it in a university computer lab on a monitor the size of a milk crate, and I found this piece, about a writer whose experience with Klonopin completely dulled her creative impulse, both desire and ability to express herself.

It sounded pretty nice.

"Well-known benzo side effects include 'emotional clouding' and 'loss of creativity,' which can be distressing whether someone wants to make art or not."

Well, but what about the someone who wants to not want to?

I don't know why, exactly, I want so badly for that urge to go away, that bone-deep need to make stuff or say stuff. Blogging should help, right? It should dispel the charge. But it doesn't and I don't know what to do. 

Lots of you have asked, well, what is it you expect from the things that you make? Can you let go of the idea of these things existing for other people, can you break from the fear of having those things judged, will that free you up to make them without the crushing hate. 

And I say, I don't expect anything from them. I don't expect them to be Great-capital-G, or famous, or significant, or important. I really don't. The thought of others judging me does not trouble me in the least.

That is not the root of that twanging nerve.

But there is no freedom in making things for my eyes only. I don't like to do it. I don't enjoy it, I don't see any point -- and the things I make for myself alone never, ever bring me joy. I am happy to sit and think my thoughts in silence for days on end, laugh at interior jokes, move myself to tears or joy or fury. I make sense of the world internally. I never could keep a diary going, but look at this shit here! (gestures around blog)

What I want from anything I do is a point of connection. A little ET-fingers-ouch something. I am so self-contained that sometimes it's lonesome in here. Are you lonesome in there, sometimes?

All I want is to feel like someone else understands the world the same way as I do, just for the briefest instant: 140 characters or a Facebook post or if a blog post catches you the right way or a poem that punches you in the gut or a joke that takes you by surprise and makes you laugh, or I can make you the best goddamn lemon meringue pie you ever had and you love it and for a second we both know what that tastes like, the union of sugar fluff and tang and sweet and richness and salty flaky crust that fills the whole universe.

We have the same thing for a second, and we are both not alone right then. 

So what, then? Why is the blog both so comfortable and so not enough? Is it that I wish to communicate in other dimensions as well, that I need a challenge? But then why is that so threatening? Why do I instantly congeal into self-loathing the second I even begin to consider other forms of expression? (It's pretty funny to see. If anybody asks me, in person, about those other forms, I go from normalcy into a weird stammering repetitive trance about how no I don't do that, no it's better if I don't, no no that's not me I don't do that any more I never did that it would be a mistake. And I stop making eye contact and start shaking my head.)

Y'all are welcome to offer your thoughts. I can't figure the fucking thing out. 

**Edited to add: But I don't think that's the same as caring what other people think, exactly. Since I operate from the standpoint of assuming everyone barely tolerates me at best, I take perverse delight in NOT giving a crap what other people think. The judgment of others never troubled me in the least -- since I know in my bones that whatever I do, some aspect of my being will be found wanting by somebody, if not everybody. I say all manner of gross, silly, dumb, naked, unpopular things here, without a care -- because I know that they are genuine.

Comments

[anon]

I get it. I sooo get it. I could never keep a diary either, it just never made sense. Why would I write that stuff down, when I already have those thoughts in my head. If I wanted feedback, I would put those thoughts out into the universe, not a diary.

As I was reading this, all I could think was: You need to be a game designer. Board games or software, the rules are all still essentially the same. You craft an experience. You put yourself out into the universe through this game and you have tons of people living an experience you crafted for them. It might be for 5 minutes or 5 hours or 5 days, but it is quite an amazing thing. At the same time, it is a job and requires some focus and rigidity and human psyche. It is incredibly rewarding. Plus, there is a need for gaming in all realms. Games to improve quality of life for patients is a vast open space ready to be explored.

Full disclosure: I was diagnosed bipolar II. I still think it was a mis(sed) diagnosis for VERY severe PPD. However, I remain constantly on high alert for behaviors that signal the beginning of a tumble into self-destruct mode.

[Jill]

I realllllly hope this is helpful: if you truly don't know why you feel pain when you consider other forms of creative expression, them it seems as though a meditation practice is a good way to find out. Getting sucked into a painful interior monolog is not at all the same as watching it unfold in a mindful way. When I started to observe my own mental chatter, I was surprised at what those voices really sounded like. The pink noise of your mind in daily life takes on a different character close up. It's like we all have a subliminal soundtrack.

[Jo]

You know, I need to learn how to meditate. It is difficult, with a bipolar brain that is always blaring, but not impossible, I'm sure.

My therapist specializes in mindfulness techniques. So yay.

Having articulated all this, I find I do feel astonishingly better about it. Not fixed. But -- able to get a little bit of a handle on the problem. Does the possibility of connection scare me because it is so unpredictable?

[Lisa]

So self-contained that you crave connection. Yes, yes, yes. Because I relate to you in so many ways, your writings often serve as a surrogate for my own self-awareness. This observation really hits home with me. I wonder sometimes why I post so much, why I go for the laugh, why I admit things I might not in person, and it's because I love that connection and it makes me feel social in a way that is comfortable for me, and is very efficient.

"I'm a lot like you. Hello, I'm here; I'm waiting. I think I'd be good for you and you'd be good for me." Thank you for all you do and say and reveal. You are an awesome person and you've helped me feel connection in this world of superficial "how do you do fine thank you"s.

[Lilian]

This is beautiful:

"What I want from anything I do is a point of connection. A little ET-fingers-ouch something. I am so self-contained that sometimes it's lonesome in here. Are you lonesome in there, sometimes?

All I want is to feel like someone else understands the world the same way as I do, just for the briefest instant"

ME TOO!!! I mean, and for me it goes both ways. I don't mind not getting much feedback on what I write (i.e. blog), but I just love to read what people write, identify with them/the writing and let them know about it, which is what I'm doing right now. So... yes, I am lonesome in here most of the time, but reading other people's thoughts makes me way less lonesome. I hope that reading these brief comments I make help you too.

[Nina]

Mmmmmm hmmmm.... I sure do have some photos of you. I didn't deelte ANY of them. Not a one. See that 2nd picture there that you posted of me? Yeah... I'm making that face at you right NOW! :PI won't be mean though. I want to be known as the sweet sister. :)And thank you everyone for your sweet compliments. I'm blushing.I love you Marshy!