Hi there. Yesterday, a friend of mine challenged some friends of his:
“I want you to share something that is making you get out of bed these days and one thing you are working towards that might be scary to admit.”
I was tagged in that post, and so therefore challenged to write something. Although I had some lofty shit ready to go, under the illusion that I had to be a role model or something for the younger folks in the group. But as I started writing, nothing came out honestly. Delete-delete-delete. Start over. Here’s what I ended up posting, and felt the need to port over here:
“If we’re playing honesty box right now (and I do think that’s the point here)? I’m having a hard time identifying what I’m getting out of bed for. Right now, it’s in service of others in my union leader capacity – which, in the short time I’ve been doing this work, has been some of the most gratifying and infuriating work of my life.
But I’m struggling with depression and anxiety and waves of not-good-enoughitis and here’s-a-new-thing-to-feel-guilty-about syndrome wherever I turn, and I’m having a really hard time maintaining it as my artistic career seems like it’s falling apart before my eyes. I’m not sure what to do next, so I try to dig in and be helpful to others wherever I can. But sometimes it hurts to get out of bed, and it hurts to manage my own expectations and the expectations of others, and it hurts to feel like I’m falling far behind. I’m tired and I just want to try to save the world.”
I can’t say it made me feel better or lighter or anything to write this, because it’s still permeating every cell of my being no matter where I turn, but there it is. I am wondering how much pressure must be released before any relief is felt, or if the release of pressure just invites new pressure to fill the empty space.