A word about stress.
This year, from about August last year until now, is the most stressed I can remember being for some time. Professionally, personally—I don’t recall I time in my life where it all came together, or fell apart, in such a perfect, insane storm such as this. One hit after another. My life has felt a lot like this scene from RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK. (Minus the severed heads.)
So how do you keep going in the face of unimaginable stress? I don’t know. I don’t really have answers. Does anyone? Can I have her number?
I run almost daily, and go to yoga on the days when my hips are too sore for running. It cleans it all up upstairs, all the messy, confused brain stuff. The executive functioning. And on the really rough days, when it won’tcan’t clean it all-the-way up, it vacuums the floor and wipes the counters of my brain, which sometimes can be enough to make the whole place feel clean.
I’ve taken on a few new projects with friends, some writing ones and some theatre ones. For some, taking on new projects would contribute to the stress, and okay, yes. On some days, it does. But most of these projects have finite goals and give me more of a sense of accomplishment and energy restoration than depletion. I like to see what I’ve done. I like checking that box on my to-do list.
I’ve started using the downtime feature on my phone, enforcing a full stop on most social media for long stretches of the day. When I’m really stressed, I find myself losing so much time mindlessly scrolling, doing nothing to take care of my mental or physical health. Downtime is really handy on those days.
I’m reading more. SACRED CONTRACTS by Caroline Myss and THE PLACES THAT SCARE YOU by Pema Chodron and EDUCATED by Tara Westover are currently on my nightstand. Oh, and SIDEWAYS STORIES FROM WAYSIDE SCHOOL with my youngest and the fifth HARRY POTTER with my oldest. (The sixth is my favorite in the series, so I’m reading this one to her as fast as I can. Book carrot.) Books are home base. They are olly-olly-ox-and-free. The words will save us.
I meet up with friends, sometimes over Marco Polo, sometimes at an event, sometimes on my couch with some yarn and crochet hooks. This is especially helpful for the overhinky part of my brain, which seems to be extra active these days. Friends remind me that no matter how broken I feel, how lost and alone, that somehow I am still worthy of love and attention. Sometimes I say funny things. Some people still think I’m worth it.
And therapy. I’m back in therapy. It’s helpful and hard and I lovehate it. But these are triage times, y’all. These are the days that must happen to you, Whitman said. If I had a heart attack, I’d see a cardiologist. Potato, tomato.
So much of what happens to us/is happening to me is out of my control. So much of it I try to control anyway.
That’s so stupid, guys. Colossally stupid.
Anne Lamott, patron saint of the brokenhearted and one of my living heroes, has much to say on this topic: i.e., stress and hardship and heartache and happiness. But I love this, and I need the reminder.
“Just try to bust yourself gently of the fantasy that publication will heal you, that it will fill the Swiss-cheesy holes inside of you. It can’t. It won’t. But writing can. So can singing in a choir or a bluegrass band. So can painting community murals or birding or fostering old dogs that no one else will.”
This year has opened new, cavernous Swiss-cheesy holes inside of me. I am filling them the best way I know how: with creative works, with friendship, with therapy, with lavender-scented bubble baths.
Although, shortcuts are always welcome.