Sherri Cornelius

This will be vague and rambling, but you’re used to that sort of thing from me, aren’t you?

So it seems like for the past year or so I’ve been figuring out what I want with my life, what has been bringing me down and where I need to improve. I remembered what joy felt like, gained a couple of new hobbies, and stood up for myself in new ways. Now I guess I’m done with that part, the discovery, and it’s time for action.

Action? Well that hardly seems fair. I thought figuring things out was action. That I’d be able to rest once I figured things out, that discovery would bring about the change I need, but apparently I have to do that part too.

But I’m so tired! Can’t you just do the first part for me, Universe? Give me a little kick-start?

Well, of course not. No matter how often I forget, no matter how much I wish someone else would take care of me, that’s not how it works. No one will carry me. No windfall will make my journey easier.

And I catch myself wishing I had chosen a profession instead of drifting all these years, but then I have to remember I would be questioning any of my established choices just now, because it is that time.

I laugh, thinking of how I thought I would be in my 40s. How mature. So stable. Secure in my self-knowledge. Of course, the more you know the more you realize you don’t know. I knew this a long time ago, but for some reason I didn’t think about it applying to my life’s journey, as well. Only to individual experiences.

I’m not saying the floundering is over, but I do feel a bit better. More creative and open. Ready to connect, and less judging of my failures.

Now I just have to figure out how to proceed and look for an opening.

Energy

There’s a certain amount of trust that goes along with putting your art in front of the public. You have to trust is that people will accept the work as your own truth and appreciate your candor, even if they don’t get it. You also have to trust yourself to weather criticism. You have to feel safe in your writing space and in your community and between your ears.

It also takes a certain amount of energy to trust. Trusting is something you can decide to do. You can create pockets of trust within an unsafe environment, if you have enough energy. I’ve been able to do this in the past, but I’m currently undergoing a massive restructuring that I can see now has been going on for a couple of years. Call it a mid-life crisis, or depression or whatever, but both physical and mental energy has been low, and the little I have is going toward figuring out more important stuff. Life stuff.

At the moment I have more energy than I have in a very long time, and I’m shocked to realize how small an amount it is.

However, even that small amount more will make it possible to start allotting a little more energy toward recreating the pocket of trust around writing. It will be a slow build, but I think I can do it. I would at least like to try.

I expect this will be the last post in this series. I figured it out. There’s always been fear and distrust and a reluctance to begin and self-sabotage, but the difference in my production has been the energy. I push and push myself, thinking I have something to prove or someone who’ll be disappointed, and when I don’t produce what I’ve decided I should, I beat myself about the face and neck and call myself a lazy slut. Yeah, that’ll motivate a person. Geez.

You can’t get blood from a turnip, and you can’t use more energy than you are producing. At least I know now that the problem is not with writing itself. That’s a relief. Instead of being angry with myself for failing, I can be compassionate and gentle, conserve my energy, redirect it from worry and concentrate on ways to make my life less stressful. I think that’s pretty good advice for just about any situation.

Hopefully pretty soon I’ll be able to blog about why I can write.

Fear

Wow. It was really hard to start this post. Even now, I find my gaze wandering around the room as I type. My defense mechanism is doing everything it can to keep me from thinking too deeply about why I shouldn’t think too deeply.

Because if I think deeply, things might change, and that makes me afraid. I might get what I want, and that makes me feel guilty. I might fail, and then I’ve let everybody down. I might be imperfect--in front of everybody, no less--which is unacceptable. Every active step is another step toward upending other people, and this is unforgiveable. So I stay where I am.

Except, to stay where I am means I must distract myself, so I actually can’t stay still for more than a few minutes at a time. I must have plenty of projects going at once. That way when I finish one I can move right on to another, which leaves no time for ponderings that might lead me down another path. When I solve one problem, there’s another waiting. Thank God I’m doing such a good job with the distractions, because otherwise I’d have to admit that writing is my calling after all, and I’m really just scared.

And you know, this is all pretty silly, because it’s nothing I haven’t figured out before. The surprise is how strong the roots around my ankles are. Why has it come to a head now? Maybe because the roots have grown bigger than I realized, and they threaten to strangle me. It’s fear, all right. Fear of success, failure, change. Fear of meeting myself, of imperfection, but most of all, fear of emotion. Fear of losing control, of hurting someone or myself with those pesky emotions that seem to always be at odds with my surroundings. Why does it have to be so hard? I know what I want to feel, what I should feel, so why can’t I feel it?

I’ve been stuffing my emotions for so long now that I can’t comprehend what I’ve just written. Trying to edit the previous paragraphs would strip them of all meaning, if you can understand them in the first place. This is raw, just like the fear that I am only beginning to allow into the light, and this post might not be here tomorrow.

Self-sabotage

Last time I made an unexpected connection between the failures of the two huge artistic ventures in my life, singing and writing. (And yes, I do consider myself a failed writer at this point, but I hope to change that.) This realization brought other, smaller connections to light--things I’d already identified independently, but when interconnected make a sizeable web of self-sabotage.

For instance, many, many projects go unfinished. I become bored with them sometimes, but lots of times I’m tenacious and just can’t seem to get to the finish line. Little things outside of my control might go wrong or I can freeze up with indecision, but for any number of reasons I end up spinning my wheels. And I’m not talking only about writing. It’s a widespread problem encompassing home projects, marital issues, financial goals, etc.

This is the mechanism that caused me to stop trying to get published. It is confusion, fatigue and the inability to see the path, just like when I decided to stop singing. But it’s a completely different feeling from what keeps me from sitting down to writing at all.

Another stumbling block is trying to please everyone. I’m skilled at going into other people’s worlds, and terrible at bringing others into mine. Personally, I think this is what makes me a writer—because I’m able to go deeply and intuitively into the worlds I create—but it’s not so great for decisive action, nor for knowing what I really want.

Part of that pleasing everyone thing means I don’t take care of myself, like going to the doctor when I’m sick, or exercising and eating right. If it’s just for me, it doesn’t matter. Writing pleases me, when I let it, but it doesn’t matter to anyone else.

It got to a point where my identity had absorbed so much of other people that I didn’t have any of myself left. I’ve spent a few years trying to unravel that thread, and maybe I’m almost ready to start rebuilding. But something stops me short. Something keeps me from crossing that finish line—not just with writing, but with pretty much everything that would define me as an independent, productive human being. Now, is that fear of success, or fear of happiness?

I’ll explore that next time.

I’ve been thinking about my reluctance to write. I used to think it was garden-variety writer’s block, and it seemed very clearly connected to stress: the normal stressors at home; the pressure of having an agent and the expectations that went along with it; physical restrictions, such as migraines. Then there are little bullshit reasons, like not having a suitable writing space (though what that might be I haven’t figured out yet).

I feel like an asshole, knowing other people write in the face of greater pressures and still being unable somehow to overcome my piddly ones. But the one thing I’ve known the entire time is that it’s a mental block. The stress isn’t only an excuse, it’s a real reason. What I haven’t known is why stress shuts me down.

So the reason I’m finally writing about this is because I think I've placed another piece, possibly the most important piece, of my psychological puzzle.

Now, I’ve mentioned the fear of success in passing in previous reflections on writer’s block, but I’ve never taken it seriously. I mean, how douchey does fearing success sound? “I’m so good it scares me.” Right. But last night I was telling my kids how I didn’t apply myself in college, a typical parent’s warning to learn from my mistakes. All night the memory nagged me, the memory of what it felt like to choose to skip voice lessons that last semester, to avoid going to the piano practice rooms (and then when I got there to study history instead of playing scales), to be glad to excuse my slacking by pointing to my full-time job.

And it felt familiar. Well yeah, of course it’s familiar because I went through it, but it felt recently familiar. And then I made the connection. It’s the same thing I do today with writing. The same reluctance to begin. The same restlessness when I finally sit down to write. The same anxiety about what I should be doing as opposed to what I am doing, and it doesn’t seem to matter what those two things are. In fact, they switch places regularly.

Once I realized this connection I started to make others. I’ll go into those in the next post. This is a biggie. I hope I can see it through.

I feel like organizing today, but I can’t seem to find a place to start. I finally figured out that when I get to this state, it’s because I need to declutter before I can organize what is left. So instead of staring at the mess or moving it from one table to another, I’ll think about what I really need and put the rest in a donation box.

I feel pretty proud of myself for taking what I learned and applying it to change an old habit. For a long time I felt like such a slave to my unconscious (and detrimental) thinking patterns, so it’s nice to have gotten to the point where I can bring them out one at a time and deal with them. I guess this is what they mean when they say you become more of yourself in middle age. You start questioning the things others have drilled into you as fact, and you decide what you believe to be true.

And then, I suppose, most start drilling their own true facts into others, perpetuating the cycle. Is this something we are meant to do? I guess we’re not drilling so much as stating the truth as we know it. Maybe it’s human nature that the first 40 years or so we absorb our truths from other people, because we’re not experienced enough to trust our own truths.

I’ve reached a place where even though I might not be able to state my truth clearly, I recognize it when I see it. I recently saw the truth in a book about creativity called The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. It is a small volume which tells me things I already knew but did not trust. I appreciate its compactness. Not a lot of jibber-jabber to fluff it up to an impressive size to the detriment of the message. I borrowed this from the library, but this one deserves a permanent place on my shelf. I’ll be putting it on my Amazon wish list.

So now I’m thinking a lot about what it means to be a creative person, how to not only accept that about myself but also how to celebrate it, and how to combine my creativity with my accumulated knowledge to let it manifest in my life.

You might remember the Thoughts from the Treadmill posts here on the blog. Well, the old, sticky treadmill I was using went the way of Freecycle, after gathering dust in the shed for many months. Apparently just having it in the shed helped keep the weight off, because, no lie, I’ve gained five pounds since giving it away a couple of weeks ago after being the same weight for a couple of years.

Of course that’s not true, but I wish having a treadmill in the shed and not under my feet could help keep the weight down. Instead, I guess I have to admit my knitting has played a part. Rather than taking the place of another sedentary activity (can you say Facebook?), knitting has taken the place of other activities I might have to actually, you know, get up to do. Not that I had that many active habits in the first place, because everything I do is on my laptop, from writing to bill paying to photos to social connections.

So now, after much pondering over which laptop-centered activity has to go and what the hell would replace it, I’m thinking I need to get a decent treadmill and set up another walking desk. The only reason I stopped using the other one is that it was just too damned hard to push myself on that horrible manual treadmill and still keep my hands on the keyboard. I actually enjoyed the walking when I had something else to do, and it felt like the creativity flowed more evenly as well.

Another factor in my weight gain is my crappy eating. I cook more than I used to, but I don’t think my improvement is keeping up with my metabolism. Oh, and that reminds me, I probably need to get my thyroid medicine adjusted again. That might help. Another thing is anxiety, which I’m working on slowly to alleviate. Stress has been shown to increase belly fat, or so the diet pill commercials tell me.

I think I’ll go look around for a small electric treadmill at the pawn shops and thrift stores. If I can’t find a decent one there, I guess I’ll have to consider a new one, even though the thought of spending the money sends me into fits of anxiety.

And there goes another button.