V. H. King's Ink

A few days ago, I told a friend I felt the heaviness of the world bearing down with inescapable force. At the same time, there was a knowing on the inside. I knew the power of artists sharing their journeys. I knew how stories had reached me when I felt most alone. I knew the joy my friends shared with me when they had access to stories and characters.

And I know my writing, my art, keeps me going. The thing is, I have so little energy for it.

I miss painting in the sun on long summer afternoons. I had so looked forward to painting this summer. With physical and speech therapists advising me to get through my day according to my capacity, I had hoped. Without weekly appointments, I thought I would have time to paint at least once or twice. Maybe once a month, or every other week if I was lucky.

It didn’t happen.

I assumed that my imagination would remain offline, for the time being. I’ve been surprised to find a few nights when words just gush out like a stream brimming with winter run-off. I am grateful for those hours in the dark, with a single unknown star outside my bedroom window and my favorite playlists flooding my headphones. Night writing is reminiscent of my college days, when I finally set aside my studying and escaped into the world of story. That same habit followed me through my masters’ program and my full-time days, although far less frequently. Experiencing that again, however unfrequently, has been a comfort.

The short version of this update feels like the same thing I say every time. I’m exhausted from appointments. I’m sad I don’t have the energy to put my heart into art and writing the way I want to. I’m overwhelmed (read, angry) by all the ways bureaucratic process are inaccessible and unjust.

Sometimes I wonder if people I used to work with assume I just spend all my days writing, reading, and sketching. I don’t. I spend my days struggling through paperwork with the taste of stomach acid in my mouth. I drag myself to appointments and follow-ups and labs, so brain-fogged that I don’t remember what we talked about last time or what I’m supposed to bring up. I crash most afternoons, my ears ringing and my head pounding.

I don’t want to eat. I can’t sleep without some regrettable series of nightmares chasing me into the daylight. My muscles ache constantly, regardless of how much I stretch or shift positions. And none of this is new. I feel about as bad as I did when I was working. The only difference (I hope) is that I’m not making myself worse.

I miss feeling grounded, present enough, to enjoy those things that give me life. I’m scared it will never come back, but I know I will have my moments. Joy is piecemeal; a morsel of hope here and there to barely keep me afloat. But some days, most days, I feel like I have nothing left.

I know I’m sharing my writing in ways that matter. My sketches remind me to imagine, are moments of play, become my means for survival. I can still daydream of all the canvases I want to paint, the stories I want to write, the ideas for collaborations and commissions. I keep my ideas and notebooks nearby, scribbling and outlining. Maybe I can’t do anything with it yet, and maybe I’ll never be able to.

My site will go off-line halfway through November, and I have no idea when I’ll have the energy (or resources) to bring it back. I used to have entire timelines and detailed schedules of what I would write, publish, accomplish. Over and over, I’m faced with the reality that I can’t do this. And considering the facts, maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

For whatever reason, I believed the people who told me I was a leader. I took on the responsibility to do something important, impactful, with my life. I think I made a mistake, because they forgot that managing to stay alive is hard enough as it is. I have no timelines for those dreams. Maybe they’ll only be unfinished drafts scattered across a lifetime of notebooks and canvas boards and word docs.

So be it.