The computer crashes. You restart it, it says, would you like to recover your files? I threaten to go back to my Macintosh, or even a word processor. They still sell typewriters in the Vermont Country Store catalog. I am so tempted.
For years I didn’t create much of my own art, and I said, it was too hard, while being a mom, having a family. Some people can balance it. I couldn’t … or could I? After my son was older, I returned to fulfill my creative urges … but I was so rusty!!! What helped, were not only community education classes, which were inexpensive, and an artists retreat, which was expensive. There is a whole economy built on people pursuing their dreams. It’s a real cash cow.
I am in the process of recovering my creative self.
What was keeping me back was more insidious than a lack of time management skills, it was actually the demands that were brainwashed in to me during my formative years. The harpies cry that drew the sailing ships to crash in to the rocks. Mine were voices telling me that I was not allowed to take time for “myself”. Despite all the evidence that there’s nothing wrong with devoting myself to an art career, my dreams kept being choked … so that my creative urges only came out in drops. A trickle here and there …
I had to fight and claw my way out from underneath the naysayers who were telling me in one way or another HOW to spend my time. They don’t come out and say it directly, they say it in so many words. Mine came from my family. They were jealous and unsupportive. They believed I should be spending my time on THEIR needs, wants, demands, hobbies and interests, that mine were absolutely foolish. Since this kind of brainwashing started happening in my formative years, in adolescence, my toolbox was built badly in the beginning. I could only escape the grip of these voices, trying to guilt me, by drinking them away. Then, I would try to create art, while intoxicated, which didn’t really work, no matter how hard I tried to make it work. Let me tell you a secret. Not all the artists and writers who have a reputation for being big drinkers, are really drinking that much while they’re working. I want to think that they’re creating a mythical persona. I drank because I had to shut off the voices that told me I had no right to spend my time painting or writing. That I should be selling MLM schemes, that I should be helping them with their projects around their houses, that I was put on earth as some type of servant, a cook, a cleaner. I mean, as much as women’s rights have come along, let’s face it. If women don’t do the majority of the things around the house, they will not get done. I have actually watched my husband make himself a sandwich and not offer to make one for me. That is one of the most heartbreaking things to see. And if I say anything he will feel hurt, or he’ll shrug as if it is nothing. While here I am, I wouldn’t dream of just making MYSELF a sandwich while other people are within my sight. Then take the one sandwich and put all the ingredients back in to the refrigerator without saying a word. I mean, AMIRIGHT? This borders on codependency, but I’m not going there. And the sad part is that my husband IS supportive and he’s not one of the narcissists!!!
I’m rebuilding my toolbox, that was made by a dumb adolescent with no skills.
I started drinking when I was 15 after my mom died. IT FELT FANTASTIC. For once. I kept it well hidden, except from my closest drinking buddies.
I managed to graduate high school — with terrible grades — I recovered to a 4.0 GPA at the community college, in an unusual dry spell, and I found myself in a semi-serious relationship with a high-functioning alcoholic. I decided I didn’t want to either be an alcoholic, or get stuck in a relationship with one. I dated a couple more of them, still, I kept attracting addicts!
Why was I always bailing people out? Here I was, on my own sinking ship, and people were clinging on to me as if I were a life raft. And if I pushed them away, they would find a way to get back at me. This was my love life… I know, I take ownership, it’s still not their fault. I knew that I had to be the change. In the spaces of sobriety everything became so astoundingly clear! The voices of guilt, and shame, came flooding into my space, they hadn’t left, they’d only been on mute.
Next blog: as if your life depends on it.
honeygoldwriter 