V. H. King's Ink

Being on medical leave from work for three weeks means I have plenty of time to reflect on what my life has been like so far.  What I expected for myself, where I have found myself in the present, and what I want to do next. It’s been hard to ground myself in a specific set of skills.  I don’t always know what I’m good at, but I know what I love to do.  I love writing.  I love painting and drawing.  I love imagination and creativity and cultivating a work that reflects the mystery of the world.

I love engaging with others through story. 

Now, I never thought this was something I could do full-time.  I never thought I was good enough to support myself financially by doing this.  Successful authors seemed like exceptions rather than the norm; before I went along with other people’s ideas that I could sell scripts to Hollywood and write for prime-time television, I wanted to make sure I had a solid income first.  And, I never wanted to be famous anyway. 

That seemed waaaaaayyy too scary. 

There was no way I was going to college for four years and not study creative writing.  That was the air I breathed, and I would suffocate without it.  In an effort to increase my employability and job options, I majored in psychology as well—which led me on to a master’s degree in higher education and eventually a full time job. 

Success!  I made it! 

Now to keep that writing dream alive—except I hadn’t been paying attention to all of the things that were shriveling in the process.  Well, that’s an unfair statement.  I was paying attention, but I live in a society with systems that encourage you to just keep going even when you really shouldn’t. 

Pushing myself past my boundaries for the sake of school and social activities was normal.  Eventually that turned into pushing myself past my physical limits just to keep up with everyday things, like getting groceries or making it to work.  That’s when I noticed I had a real problem.  I didn’t know the other problem would be getting a doctor to take me seriously.

For the past ten years, I’ve experienced a gradual decline in my physical abilities.

Ten years?!  Yes, ten years.  A decade.  And looking back, I have only been aware of my physical decline for about half of that time.  Yikes.  I am now at the point where working full-time is too risky.  I plan to keep working for another year, out of sheer necessity—but at the same time, I am planning for the days when I find myself with a lot more time on my hands.

What am I going to do?

I can’t predict the future.  I know the current state of my health and, to quote a friend, “It’s bad, actually.”  I don’t know how many more hits I’ll take, pushing myself through this next year.  I don’t know what condition I’ll be in when I finally stop working.  Currently, the plan is to stop working in the spring of 2023 and move into a more accessible living space by June. 

I’m giving myself two years to rest. 

Once those wind down, I’ll re-evaluate whether I’m able to return to work—and whether I should start working again.  Those are two different things, because while I might be able to work in the short term, it could turn into a cycle of burning out to the point that my health takes another dive.  If the patterns I’ve noticed so far have anything to say, that burnout cycle gives me no time for true recovery.  My health stays in a fragile, precarious state—and my longevity for pursuing the activities I enjoy diminishes with every spiral. 

So during the next two years, I have a chance to reimagine.  Maybe art and writing will be how I support myself.  There are more opportunities out there than I can imagine.  There are more challenges than I will be able to prevent or prepare for.  I once thought I was successfully accomplishing my goals, only to wonder if I had actually jeopardized the very life I dreamed of. 

I’m tempted to say that success happens in stages, which might be partially true.  All the baby steps and little wins along the way have to count for something.  I also wonder, though, if success is a state of being.  More abstract than circumstantial.  And if I can keep holding on to joy and hope regardless of my work ability or my health—well, I think that counts for something too.