Who knows where this shit will lead

It's difficult to describe what my relationship to writing is like. For most of my life, it's been something I just did. I've always done well in my English/writing classes for as far as I can remember. In high school I won awards for journalism writing I did competing for UIL, which I only signed up for because it was something to do. I never intended on becoming a writer, but as with most things, I failed upwards and ended up in a vocation where I not only have to write but even teach others to do it better.

But my writing was always work for me; or rather, it was always a thing I kinda wanted to avoid, but knew I needed. IN that way, it's much like my relationships with other people: I often neglect reaching out to friends and family, not because I don't care, but because emotions and people are complicated. The thought that, because of who I am and what I do, I'll be looked to for advice or be asked a difficult question fills me with existential dread. So I avoid (not consciously, it has to be said), lest I feel drained afterward.

And it's that draining that worries me. On my best days, the writing and the reaching out is...rhythmic. That's a good way to describe it. I've been part of a support/mindfulness group for BIPOC faculty and one of the coordinators observed that my favorite physical activities, specifically biking and weight lifting, involve rhythm in their own unique ways. With cycling, I get into a groove where I'm acutely aware of my breathing and cadence and feel like and can just keep going and going. With lifting it's just pick up heavy thing, then drop heavy thing. No analysis, no reflection, no interrogation - I just do thing until I want to stop doing thing.

Sometimes the weight feels too heavy. Sometimes the ride is all uphill. Writing, more often than not, feels that same way for me. In the past couple of years, I’ve been seeing a therapist who diagnosed me with mild depression and anxiety, during which time my writing (academic and blogging) has hit some good rhythms and then…stopped. Upon reflection, I’ve found that I can track where my mental health is by my writing – the more thoughtful, reflective work happens when I’m struggling. But that’s a draining life to live. The thought of having to sit down and wade through the jungle that is my clown-brain and come away with sentences that make logical sense just sounds...tiring. Then I avoid that too. Hell, I started this fucking blog as a way to avoid the academic writing I had to do in grad school.

Photo by B S K from FreeImages

But I'm a stupid, petty, asshole human who needs things: comfort, love, connection, support. All of those things by their nature require connection in some way, shape or form. Irony of ironies, the thing that best allows me to express my dysfunction, humor, emotions and thoughts is stupid-ass writing. I feel like some sort of extraterrestrial, isolated on a planet whose sentient beings communicate in some obtuse manner that forces me to go through several layers of cognition to translate, after which I'm thoroughly spent. So spent that the alternative, complete and utter isolation from others, starts to sound appealing. While solitude is nice, complete solitude makes you a monster.

Since I'm barely human as it is and don't know exactly why I'm writing this, other than to write, I'll just say

Consider this my reaching out.