Saturday, June 25, 2016

Hello From the Dark Side of Contentment

In April I was fierce.

I was The Ram, a symbol that brought me power this year despite my current total lack of belief in astrology. I was wild and brave and I made poem a verb again  ('allmother is my favorite; you can find it hereand I was determined that I'd relaunch the blog with the new URL during NaPoWriMo.
I didn't.

When May Day dawned, and it was a relief not to have to post for a bit. I'd take a breather, reacquaint myself with the tech, and I'd relaunch.

But I sank back into the same mire that has held me in its sticky grip for too long to quantify: Complacency.

The reason the blog hasn't had a post since, I believe, September is that insidious enemy of the creative force: Bland contentment. I've become perfectly comfortable as a passive consumer of creativity. I read novels and fanfiction and articles. I scroll through social media feeds and re-post the ideas others have made.

I have been, for the most part, content. My worst problem on a day to day basis (outside the occasional anxiety spikes) has been anhedonia.


an·he·do·ni·a
ˌanhēˈdōnēə,-hi-/
noun

PSYCHIATRY
  1. inability to feel pleasure.

Nothing that has always brought little frissons of pride--a well-turned phrase or lovely line work--have moved me to draw or to write much if at all.

The best case has been that terrible, flat, and grey complacence. That complete lack of concern that I have felt fine with not being creative. But through the colorless sort-of un-being, I've become quite frightened that been so accustomed to passivity.

As the winter months brought higher levels of pain, I was also worried by the notion that I haven't got anything to say here. I have become much more comfortable at home than not. My logic insists that I have barely addressed the odd workings of my body and I've been wanting to write a series of posts about that for years now.

And it's striking how weeks become months become years and my awareness of time is so blurred. Lying in bed so often and getting out rarely has done strange things to my time perception.


But it's down to me to crawl out of contentment and seek experience. I've had my months and years to learn to live in my now-body. And I need now to reassert that I have my stories to tell of my body and my mind. I have my visual art to show, and I have my voice. 

Right now, the summer sun reminds me that that is enough; I am enough; we are all enough. 

Every story matters.
I'll forget that, again and again, and I will return to it always and I will find myself here.

Always.

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