I was driving 75 miles per hour on the interstate when I lifted my foot off the accelerator. Moving to the far right lane, I felt the car begin to slow. I had this odd sense of resignation, marked by fatigue as I steered the car towards the exit. I had no particular intention for my action. All I could feel was such bone-deep tiredness that even keeping my foot on the gas pedal required too much energy. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw cars fast approaching. Startled, I realized I could cause a disastrous accident if I permitted the car to literally slow to a stop. I brought the car up to speed, and a mile later, I took the exit, which would lead me home.
Last week I wrote a post about what I termed The End Game, which described the End of My Story. It was a fantasy, of course, rooted in the fatigue I had been experiencing; my story was wearing me out, sapping me of the energy to write more of it. I took my foot off the accelerator of my journey, believing I could slow it down to a dead stop, and no one, including myself, would be any the worse for my decision. Despite the encouraging feedback I received on my proposal to write fiction or shop at Target, I had a growing sense that it wasn’t writing my story that caused my discomfort, but something deeper. I wanted to pull End Game off the blog almost immediately after it was published. There was something untruthful about it; I couldn’t figure out what it was.
It’s an odd thing that I don’t talk too much about my messy story, but I can write about it. I’ve had members of my family remark that much of what I have written is new to them and how deeply they have been affected my story. I still do not talk about it. Rather, I respond to their comments with “Oh, I’m so happy you are enjoying it, ” or “I’m sorry the story has made you sad.” Like last week’s End Game, there’s underlying dishonesty lurking as I hide behind the words I write and say – the determination to keep my story at a safe distance. I mentioned to my cousin “J,” who has a story of strength and fortitude beyond imagining, that I had to keep this distance, or it might all come crashing in on me, like stopping my car in the middle of the high-speed interstate: an inevitable pile-up.
I write alone. Unlike most writers, I don’t have an editor or a beta-reader who advises on my writing flow, etc. I write 2-3 drafts, edit as best I can, and post my writing to the blog, click a button, and my story goes “live.” Post days are heaven for my self-doubt and insecurities. Party On, you relentless dudes. Anyway, after posting End Game, it dawned on me that although I may not have been truthful to myself, the most bothersome thing was I felt I was crashing, maybe falling apart a little. There was no one I could talk to. I let loose on my Twitter group with some emotional nonsense, and although they’ve read my stories and have some idea of my propensity to moan, I think I left them direct messaging behind my back, asking, “What the hell is wrong with Bonnie?” I went silent on our chats for their sakes, crawled into myself as I am wont to do, wondering why I was so freaking upset, nervous, tense, and irritable. I surfed through Twitter, like that made any sense. And then (I love the “and then’s”). I came across the timeline of the remarkable Twitter account of Dr. Leah Katz, a writer for Psychology Today. She recently posted the following:
Backwards movement is movement.
Going backwards is an integral part of the journey of going forwards.
Growth is not linear- and is not comprised of a series of forward moving steps. It’s a curve comprised of ups and downs.
We often grow the most after we’ve had a fall.
Well, Dr. Katz told me a thing or two. The most important was that going backward is essential to moving forward. I’ve had this mental picture of staying on the straight and narrow of my journey for, after all, I’ve got some years on me, and wouldn’t you think I’ve gained a pot-load of wisdom by now? Apparently not, given the recent bailing out on my story.
I remember once when my dad was driving me back from college to our home in Illinois. The dark and forbidding clouds ahead foreshadowed the storm we eventfully drove through. This wasn’t any ordinary storm. High winds buffeted the car, and the sky opened with torrential rain and hail. The noise was deafening, and we could see nothing ahead of us. Fear overtook me, and I asked my dad if we should pull over to wait out the storm. He replied, “You must keep driving forward; you can’t stop in this storm because if you do, you risk getting hit from behind. You have to drive out of it.” What I thought was a wise lesson in driving is now a life lesson. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Drive through the storm.
My recent undefined angst had a familiar feeling, a remembrance of past experiences I have written about. After Mom had passed and I was left visiting my recalcitrant father in the nursing home and after my husband suffered a traumatic brain injury and my middle brother, Bill, was diagnosed with cancer, I began to suffer anxiety attacks, and why wouldn’t I? Life was crazy. Every nerve in my body seemed to come alive, leaving me shaken and feeling as though I could jump right out of my skin, my heart racing. Self-diagnosing depression, I visited my doctor, assuming he would prescribe anti-depressants. We spoke about managing life, including my then full-time job. He told me I was understandably suffering from anxiety and fear. Anti-depressants would not help alleviate the anxiety, but “these” tiny little pills would calm my nerves. No anti-depressants, I asked? No, he replied. I should stay fully aware of my circumstances and move forward with clarity. I was a bit disappointed as I would have preferred to have a dandy pill that would have dulled my senses a bit.
The End Game post was written during a similar period of anxiety when life had become stressful. I worried about my husband (that’s a constant), I was worried that I wasn’t picking up enough of the slack, the house hasn’t been cleaned since the pandemic shutdown (that’s not true, but right now, I could write my name in the dust on our coffee table), my dog Charlie had a seizure, I was in a writing drought, and there’s this crazy election going on in the US and… well, life was piling on. I was in the downpour of an emotional storm. That I had even a passing thought I could write my story for 4 months, relive every stinking event while in the middle of a pandemic, stressing over everything I could find, and come out unscathed would be laughable if it weren’t so absurd. I’ve suffered from anxiety all my life, for Pete’s Sake. Did I think calling a halt to writing my story would make everything alright, like the photo app I finally found that removes all my wrinkles and makes me look like a figure from Madame Tussauds Wax Museum? I chickened out on Social Media profile pictures that showed the real me, and I chickened out on my story because life was wrinkled, too.
Life is not linear, but a journey of movement, ups, downs, forward and backward. I know now that anxiety is deeply ingrained, embedded from a childhood of uncertainty derived from my tumultuous father and stoic mother. I have the propensity to stop dead in my tracks when life gets too demanding, as though I have the inability to work my way through it. I mentioned to “J” that my last blog post was a bit of a cop-out, and maybe I should have pulled it after all. She replied that everyone cops-out, and maybe it would be good to write about it.
So here I am, confessing. My story has no End Game for, like yours, it moves and flows – backward, forwards, up and down. My messy story is real and honest; not as traumatic as some stories nor as easy as others. Does writing my story hurt sometimes? Occasionally, yes. Yet, I cannot stop in the middle of my journey because fear or anxious insecurities rear their ugly heads, as is their habit. During this past couple of weeks, I noticed my sweet dog, Charlie, who may know more about than anyone, growing quiet, and he’d taken on a sad look. The other night, I took his head into my hands and said, “Charlie, I’m okay. I’m learning, Buddy, even at this age, I’m learning. We’ll be fine now.”
The picture in this post? It’s from my daughter. She posted her artwork on her Instagram page not long after I wrote End Game. I wondered if she knew that I had forgotten myself and needed to be reminded that I am indeed still brave.
Maybe we all need to be reminded of our bravery. 2020 has dumped on us about everything it could think of. We’ve experienced stress, particularly over these past months, and have different ways we react to and manage the challenges. Me? I emotionally implode. I now recognize the markers, the hints of the coming anxiety, and know that I have friends who understand. And I can cry without shame, for as Dr. Katz writes (and I paraphrase), our tears are a sign of self-compassion.
So, yes, I am still brave to stay on my story’s journey and keep moving through familiar, unpredictable emotional storms, rest when it calls me, breathe deeply in that rest, seek sunshine with happy, bright-eyed Charlie, and remember who I am.
Perhaps this is a New Beginning, after all.
Oh, the strange driving incident at the beginning of this posting? That’s part of a story years ago. I think I may need to write about it.
Be of good cheer, friends. Keep safe, remember to breathe…and rest.
You “have” friends who understand .. I think you know who they are….
I had to walk away for a bit after reading this, you really got to me Bonnie. I guess you could say your timing was perfect.
As Brandy said, we understand. I loved the story about driving through the storm. A useful lesson to remember for all of us.