If we've come to learn anything about the idea of planning, it's that said idea is nothing but a brutal example of how we use the concept of time to justify our need to look forward to something, to keep us going. What's simultaneously awful and invigorating about making plans is the inevitable breaking of them. That's why I have come to find, in the present moment, that I really cannot outline what this is going to be for you. This thought started as a Christmas countdown, exploring the ways my mental health waivers at this time of year. Then when that deadline passed I realized I lack the motivation, energy, or will to push myself to create. Something kept sticking out to me when I thought of a 12-day countdown to SOMETHING. I had yet to figure anything out when I remembered that often when I feel sane enough, I take to my computer or my journal and reflect on the year for what it has been. This shall be no different in the grand scheme of things, but in the detail and the AMOUNT in which I share is going to be unlike any other past year.
An explanation is unnecessary and frankly a waste of time on account of the both of us: myself, the writer, and you, the reader. For those potentially unaware of the world's current state of affairs (perhaps this is being read in the future, perhaps you've come up from under a rock) we've found ourselves amidst a worldwide pandemic. COVID-19 has ravaged the being of humankind since the beginning of the new decade and as I struggle to write this, the United States is still in a semi-locked down state. Mask requirements, social distancing, limited travel, restrictions on purchase quantities of bathroom paper products, worldwide job loss (both temporary and moreso permanent), and for me & most of the country at the very least: unbelievable mental health issues.
I can say with utmost confidence that this has been the most mentally unwell span of time I can ever recall living through. For years it has been typical for my mental health to tank during this time of year: between stress and what I have now come to understand is Seasonal Affect Disorder, the winter has regularly been tough for me, despite my almost totally unconditional love for the holiday season. That is precisely what has led me to my yearning to create anything and everything I can come up with in what is left of my right-side brain. Around this same time a year ago I shared a piece of my brain that came about in the wake of The Polar Express pulling me to a state of hope. "It doesn't matter where you're going, it's deciding to get on." The hope. Even if it's a falsehood. I've come to wrestle with fake positivity, the idea of "fake it til you make it," it seems almost irresponsible to push my real and true feelings to the side in order to make room for positivity I don't even believe myself. But we can hope. And this is where the circle wiggles, rather than keeping a perfect curve.
My life feels irreparably cyclical. Usually to the tune of seasons and holidays, though sometimes to my own thoughts. Clockwork. Daily, weekly, yearly. Every second of the day is packed with something to make me feel stable. Wake up, talk to my cat like she's a human, eat breakfast, go to work, come home and do yoga with just enough time to spare to contemplate whether I should sleep with my lamp on or off. TV on or off. Weighted blanket on or off. Comforter and a soft blanket or soft blanket then comforter. Do I shower then journal or journal then shower? Cyclical enough to drive ya mad. Yet that's the comfort of the cycle. I'm so used to weighing options that when I just DO them, my brain doesn't feel like it's working. It doesn't feel like it's contributing. And just like that, I crack something about myself I didn't need therapy to help me consider. My brain is exhausting and to be left alone with my thoughts for three months was less than ideal, and though my attempt at making peace with the screaming suggestions was valiant, it was not long-lasting. We'll get to that another day.
One particularly routined night I picked a yoga practice with Yoga With Adriene called Anchor In Hope. Something called me to it and I have quickly come to understand that these are calls you cannot decline. "Hope is a muscle," I was assured, "you have to connect to what makes that experience valuable and I think a lot of it is staying active and engaged... and then cultivating a sense of trust. Trust your own instincts." I never considered that in wanting to crawl into bed and not answer any phone calls that it isn't my lack of obligation to prior plans, but my natural instincts telling me in a way that I need to take care of myself for a second. When I began to brainstorm this string of flickering lights in the form of a creative outlet, my instinct was to just think. Not say, not share, not work, not act, just think. Be with my thoughts. My desire to share what this year has done for me and meant for me is pushing me to be able to face those thoughts I've winded myself in the process of running from and let them be enough to allow them to leave, or at least calm themselves. Perhaps just simmer, no longer a rolling boil.
My plan, once again, is to write something in this medium every single day until the first of January, 2021. Will it be eloquent? Will it be a stream of consciousness? Will it be a random story I remember and choose to expand upon? For once this season I'm just going with the flow and truly believing it. I want a loose plan to be enough for me to lean into. I've never been good at storyboarding these types of things, so i'm not entirely sure why a year clearly written in a creative writing class after reading War Of The Worlds feels like it needs to have a visible plotline.
Enjoy.
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