Exiting Sleep Mode

One year ago this month, I clocked out from my fast food job for the last time.

I had managed to get somebody to pity me enough to offer me a summer job which wouldn't further damage my already-destroyed back, and I wanted that job so bad that I worked both that job and fast food for a week because the new job could use me that early and I wanted to work my full two weeks' notice and leave fast food on good terms with the management (it paid off... maintaining their respect has already helped me along in life since then).

Since then, I have lived.

I have choreographed three musical theatre productions (in a variety of lead or assistant roles), added four and a half shows to my performance résumé, started crocheting again, reconnected with a couple of friends I hadn't spoken to since before I graduated college, bought a gym membership (and been actually using it), started drawing more often, contributed artwork to a theatre production, finally got meds for my ADHD, started actually keeping the house moderately clean on a somewhat regular basis... and our marriage started getting better immediately because I actually had some scraps of energy left to give my husband at the end of the day. We went from screaming matches every other day to maybe once a month, and even those are shorter and less intense as a rule.

It was literally like waking up from the dead. Even the other remissions I've had from depression were nothing like this. I literally felt like I had just pushed open the casket lid and seen the sunrise for the first time since I left home for college.

Sometimes I go through that drive-thru and I sit at the window and I think about how I used to watch the sun set at night and think to myself, 'before the sun comes up again, I will have to be at work,' and I would be on the other side of that window, my brain in a sort of semi-permanent sleep mode while my body moved through the motions of brewing and crafting coffees almost simultaneously. It literally felt like that job consumed my entire life. Even at only 32 hours a week, I couldn't let go of the stress, no matter what I tried. My life was work, eat, get lectured, sleep, rinse, repeat, every day. By the time I quit that job a year ago, I had literally forgotten how to think. I was a zombie. I had no thoughts, no joy, no sadness, no anger, no hope, no feelings at all. I have suffered from depression since I was nine years old, but this was a completely new level of dreary, drab, and lifeless. At least during my depression periods I could still make art, but during the fast food years I could not. My brain literally shut itself off all conscious thoughts, feelings, and observations in order to conserve energy, because one can literally never have enough energy to work a job like that.

This year, I set a goal for myself to read more books. I set an arbitrary goal of eight books for 2025.

It's barely May and I've read six books. And with every book I read, I can feel my brain waking up, beginning to string words together again, beginning to observe my experiences more, beginning to think again. The books aren't even super think-y and deep, but the mere act of reading is bringing my brain back to life.

I didn't even listen to music in those years. I had no energy. I stopped buying music, stopped importing records from my collection, stopped listening to the music I had, stopped following the bands' websites and social media accounts, stopped participating in the music fan groups I had been a part of.

Nothing existed but work and pain.

I tried to fight back against the encroaching unconsciousness, but that only wore me out more and pushed my brain deeper into complete shutdown.

And now, I'm reading, I'm listening to music, I'm connecting with my husband and the few friends I still have, I'm going to the gym, drawing, dancing, creating art, singing... living the life that freaking college took from me and fast food tried to lock away forever.

Though I don't remember much of those years, I hope I never forget that they happened. I never want to go back to that mental place again. I never want to forget how far I've come and how hard I've worked to get to where I am.

I never want to enter that level of sleep mode again.

Creative Residency Update

I'm now two months into my God-sponsored creative residency.

 

I'm over three-quarters done my next major dance work (Smaller).

 

I've managed to get into four shows so far this year, with two more pending.

 

I've read three books so far.

 

I've started drawing in earnest, especially in these past few weeks.

 

I've done a lot of cross-stitching (on both my theatre jacket and my husband's).

 

I've noticed my memory is getting stronger. I'm in my biggest post-pandemic acting role yet, and... I wasn't even the last one off-book. It feels -- at this exact moment, anyway -- that maybe I can still have a viable theatre career despite everything. And maybe I don't have to destroy myself to do it... theatre is no longer my only reason for living. It's a huge part of keeping my mental health in shape and it still brings me much joy, but I don't have to be in four shows at a time to earn the privilege of breathing oxygen.

When there are no shows, I can spend time with my husband, and I can draw, and I can read. I also discovered the Sims, and that's the first computer game besides Spider Solitaire, Ultimate Yahtzee, and Minecraft that I'm both competent in and actually enjoy.

I have been very productive (see above), but I have also managed to learn to ACTUALLY relax, for possibly the very first time in my entire life. I'm a little worried about how re-integrating into the workforce next month will go (especially with my two biggest shows of the year so far ramping up around that same time), but these months off have been a much-needed break so far. I don't think I have properly let my mind, soul, and body rest since I was 18 years old. That was... well over a decade ago. I still wake up in the morning and have to consciously remind myself that I don't have any looming deadlines or responsibilities that day and that I can relax.

I do wish I was doing more creative things sometimes, but at the same time, I'm happy with what I've accomplished so far, and am happy to carry that momentum forward.

I'm also somehow less stressed about money? I did apply for (and receive) unemployment benefits from the government and what they're paying me is comparable to what I was making, but somehow we don't seem to run out of money as quickly. I don't know if I'm just less stressed in general which is carrying over to our finances or if we're being more responsible, or what, but I'm not going to argue. I'm just hoping that peace continues even after I go back to work.

 

The only thing I haven't done yet that I still want to establish before I go back to work is a dance studio. I want to start ACTUALLY moving my body again. I can feel it locking up, and I hate that feeling. But the only way out from stiffness is to get moving.

Creative Residency Plans (Or: The 2025 Goalpost)

I've been laid off my day job.

 

Since my body (and my mental health) can't handle the rigours of fast food, I will not be going back, even temporarily.

My employers anticipate they will call me back in late March/early April. This gives me just over three months to sit at home and think about life, for the first time since I graduated college.

I have a couple of side hustle ideas. Neither of them will likely replace a full-time income, but if they work out, they'll at least slow the financial bleeding.

That said, this is now a glorious opportunity to work on all those creative projects I keep saying I don't have time for. I've been thinking about my goals for 2025, and I want to front-load the year either hitting those goals or at least getting myself well set up to hit them later in the year (keeping in mind that the summer months from Hell in this town are usually pretty uninspired and dormant seasons for me).

I am trying to frame this as an artistic residency sponsored by God. (And for the record, God may work through other people or through my own efforts.)

So without further ado, here are the goals for 2025!

DANCE

- At least attempt teaching two (or more) dance sessions.

- Make two dance videos this year.

I made this goal in 2023 and got it. Made the same goal in 2024 and didn't even manage one.

- Create a long-form dance work.

The plan is to use Nachmo/National Choreography Month for this (post with more details forthcoming).

- Submit to at least two dance/choreography festivals.

Notice I said 'submit,' not 'appear in.' While obviously I would love to actually present work, I can only control how many festivals I apply to, not how many actually present my work. I always consciously choose goals that I personally can control -- that way if they don't happen, it's on me, and I'm not driving myself crazy trying to check off two 'presentations,' when that facet is out of my control. I want to focus on doing the work and showing up every day and leaving everything I can't control to God. If I submit to two festivals, I will have done my due diligence, and whether or not my work is accepted, I will consider myself happy with the fact that I put my name out there.

- Secure a practice studio.

I have two potential options at the moment. I really just need to gather my courage and send a couple of emails.

WRITING

- Write some short stories/poetry to submit.

Could be tricky, as I have been in a writing dry spell for YEARS at this point.

- Finish the current Kyrie rewrite.

 

 

PERSONAL GROWTH

 

- Go for a walk (or some kind of exercise) at least three times a week.

This is a goal my husband and I have set together.

 

- Become more comfortable with using that Instant Pot that has been sitting on the shelf literally since our wedding.

This is another goal for both my husband and I.

- Read more.

I've got probably like 70 books in my Kobo wish list, and even a few that I've already purchased that I haven't read yet. I got a Kobo gift card for Christmas, so time to put it to use (as soon as I figure out which Michael Card book I want).

I did make this goal last year and read about six books, which is definitely more than I've read since graduating college.

- More Bible reading and prayer.

I made this goal last year as well and I managed to be fairly consistent until about August.

FINANCIAL

- Save at least $500 for a house.

- Get in contact with at least two people about selling my crocheted items.

- Run at least two dance class sessions.

- Promote my Ko-fi page on social media somewhere at least once a month.

- Apply to at least one job per week.

The hardest thing here will be finding jobs to apply to that 1. are within like 200 km of where I live, 2. pay enough money to cover gas for my vehicle at the bare minimum, 3. won't re-injure my back or my ankle, and 4. won't make me want to drive off a cliff.

It's still early in the pre-New Year week, so I might still tweak these. But this is at least my starting point, and since I'm already off work, I guess the creative residency starts now.

Brain Dump/Goal Update

Really lacking motivation, as usual. I keep trying to power through it, but I'm running out of reasons why I should be powering through. I'm trying to tell myself it's because I've been sick all month (had COVID immediately after Christmas, and now have long COVID symptoms so yay for that), but I know that I wouldn't be any more motivated if I wasn't sick. How on earth did I ever manage to focus long enough to get a Bachelor's degree?

So I thought I'd write a blog post, since nothing else is working. Maybe blogging about my problems will help me find the solution.

There's a scriptwriting contest nearby that closes on the 30th, and I'm trying to write something for it, if only to get my name out there (but hey, getting it produced would be a nice bonus). I came up with a theme, but it's supposed to be a one-act play. I've never even watched a one-act play in all my years of theatre, let alone written one. When you Google what a one-act play consists of, you get WILDLY different answers. Like literal opposite-ends-of-the-spectrum answers. So I just picked one and am hoping it's right. Self-doubt is not a great companion to have in a situation like this. I have no real pretensions of winning but -- man, wouldn't it be great if I did? It would look amazing in my portfolio.

I wanted to be writing articles and getting to a point where I would write an article draft one day and then editing older ones the next and repeat. I haven't written (or edited) a single thing in at least two weeks, despite really only working half-days due to ALL of the health issues. I just have absolutely no motivation and absolutely no ideas. How do I think I'm going to do this full-time when this happens all the time? It's so frustrating. I'm the only person in this household able-bodied enough to work (or at least I was before my back injury in September), and that's slipping away from me fast. I have always wanted to be self-employed and here's my chance and I'm just... doing nothing. I'm so frustrated with myself. Everyone else can do this. Why can't I? I know, I know, it's the ADHD. But that makes it worse. This only reinforces the idea that I am a dysfunctional human being and I'm too broken to bother being fixed. It's hard to want to try when you just feel so broken and forgotten.

I've submitted two pieces -- one to a magazine, and one to a flash fiction publication -- and haven't heard anything back. The magazine said it could be 9-12 months (yes, months), and the flash fiction should be announced in the next week or two. I have a half-decent draft I wanted to send to an online culture publisher, but I can't seem to pull the trigger on it. I'm so terrified they'll think my idea is stupid.

I have a vague idea of what needs to happen in Kyrie to fix the very-bad pacing issues in Act I, but I haven't figured out how to actually implement that... it's just a vague idea in my head at this point, but to actually write it into scenes? Pffft. No clue. No idea what those scenes would look like.

I've done some fine art -- mostly pencil crayon, actually, and I've almost finished a piece in marker. Those are fun and they've turned out decent. My main problem here is lack of ideas. I usually think in words (writer) and feelings (dancer), not easily-drawable images. The images I do think of are WAY above my skill level and I know it would just be an exercise in frustration to even try.

I haven't even touched dance. Not one dance thing. I want to make a trailer for Sottovoce so I can submit it to MDFF, but I just... can't, somehow. I want to type up the choreography so far for my (hopefully) next tap dance film to see where I'm at and what's left to choreograph, but again, I just... can't. I'm afraid I'll struggle with memorizing as much as I did with Inside Of You -- it turned out all right, but I've GOT to stop going into filming knowing literally none of the choreography. It just makes shooting take a thousand times longer and it makes editing so much harder than it needs to be. I dread starting memorization. I really do. I think me not typing up this choreography is me trying to avoid starting memorization -- which, of course, will make the problem even worse because then I'll have less time to memorise. I know this. I've always known this. But I can't seem to just DO it.

The one goal I've actually made a good start on is the reading. I've finished one book and read another cover-to-cover last night (it was a beta read, actually, and it was SO good. Will probably be talking about that book here a good bit when it's released -- the author accidentally hit all my special interests and it was really well-crafted).

Rehearsals for my show are going well so far. The cast seem friendly, but it's hard for this broken human to initiate conversations with them. They're a good group, and there's always laughter at rehearsal. It's also really nice to go on long drives again (it's a forty-minute drive one way -- about what I used to do four days a week for dance before I got married).

I still don't have any motivation or ideas (well, maybe one, but it's a baby idea and it needs to incubate a little bit), but it did feel nice to actually type for a while and have my thoughts organized like this.

If you've made it this far, thanks for reading.

Rebuilding (again... maybe...)

For my birthday this past August, my parents bought me Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. And working through that book has begun to remind me of all the things I loved about being an artist before everybody died.

I loved sitting in my bedroom in my parents' basement as the tree-dappled southern sunlight poured in, lighting the pink walls aflame with warmth and colour and kick-starting my imagination. I loved sitting at the desk, feeling the keys beneath my fingers or the pen scratching softly across the looseleaf. I loved sitting on the pink carpet, dreaming up huge, intricate dances for a dozen dancers, even though I didn't even know that many serious dancers in real life. I loved seeing the characters build the novels right before my eyes -- people often said that reading my writing felt like watching a movie, and I think that's because that's how my works often come to me. I watch the events play out like a film in my mind's eye and I just write down what happens. I choreograph the same way -- I put on the music and write down what the dancers in my head do. I do love the rush of satisfaction when I finish a project, but I also love the challenge of answering the perennial question 'what's next?'

I'm starting to make art again. I'm not choreographing whole dances or writing entire scripts in five days like I used to, but I'm still choreographing, and I'm starting to write posts for this blog again. I'm hoping that's the starting point for writing fiction again.

Despite being out of college for over two years now, I've still been feeling blocked. The first year was because I quite literally almost killed myself trying to prove to a bunch of gaslighting profs that I was actually putting in the work to get that degree, plus I did two major moves in three months and started a major romantic relationship with somebody who did not live anywhere near ANY of the cities I moved to. The second year was the year I planned a wedding during a pandemic and then moved to an entirely new town (because living with one's husband is a thing) and tried to figure out married life after exactly one (1) year of romantic-relationship experience -- total.

My goals are very small. Between the housework, my actual paying job, spending time with the man I married, sleeping, and basic personal hygiene, it often feels like I have no time for myself other than the three-minute drive home from work every day and I feel like I have no time for my artistic pursuits anymore. Nobody tells you that being a wife is a full-time job by itself. I knew motherhood was, but nobody warned me about plain old marriage. Basically if I can't accomplish my daily goals on my 30-minute work break while I'm eating a sandwich with one hand or during my bathroom breaks at home, they aren't going to happen.

So my goals went from 'make twelve full-blown dance videos this year' and 'practice for three hours every day' to 'choreograph two sets of eight every day' and 'read for fifteen minutes.' I'm telling myself that those two sets of eight every day will add up over time and eventually become a full dance piece, and that one chapter a day will result in finished books. Just like Duolingo has you learn a language ten minutes at a time, I'm actively trying to sneak in my creative pursuits in furtive five-minute bursts. I have no idea when exactly I'm going to write 50,000 words in November because 1,667 words per day does take slightly longer than a bathroom break, but I guess I'm going to have to figure it out.

And maybe having small goals because of my time and space limitations right now is the best way to reintegrate myself into the creative world, especially after all the harm that college did to my creative brain. If I had set a big goal like 'twelve dance videos in twelve months,' I wouldn't have even started. The goal would have been too big and overwhelming. But I can trick myself into two sets of eight. I can wheedle myself into fifteen minutes of reading. (It also really helps to track how many days in a row I've managed to do this -- I am VERY competitive and would hate myself for the rest of my life if I broke a long daily streak.) I've already finished two library books (and returned them on time -- no renewals. This has literally NEVER happened before in my entire life), and have put in consistent time on a couple of dances. I am telling myself consistency is enough right now.

The Effect of Perelandra

Almost finished reading C.S. Lewis' Perelandra.

READ. THIS. BOOK.

I am not kidding. I do not care who you are. I don't care if you normally hate fantasy fiction (I do, actually). I don't even care if you normally hate reading. READ THIS BOOK. It gets off to an incredibly slow start, but once it gets going it grabs you by the soul. Not the throat, not the heart -- the soul. What the Chronicles of Narnia has lost by being so immensely popular, this trilogy has retained by being almost completely unknown.

Ordinarily I would start thinking, what can I take from here to improve my own writing? But to try to strip writing advice out of a work so -- there are no adequate words -- intense is to strip it of its weight and meaning. And perhaps that would be an unnecessary exercise anyway -- as I was just saying to my brother not long ago: whatever you're reading will, for better or worse, show up in your writing. Your output will begin to reflect what you're putting into your mind, your spirit, your soul. You don't even have to try for it, it just happens. I was telling somebody the other day that as soon as you start trying to be sincere, you're no longer sincere. That particular discussion was in the context of interpersonal relationships and communicating feelings through writing, but it also applies to art -- as soon as you 'try' to make something great, it automatically loses some of its potential to be great.

Instead, I'll try to document some of what this story has done to me.

For it did do things to me. I was reading Buechner the other day and he said something to the effect that things like painting and music are subcutaneous arts -- they get under the skin and slowly seep into your being. But writing is an intravenous art -- it goes directly into your bloodstream, in minutes, undiluted. If I ever doubted that, Perelandra has proved it to me.

I've never really been one to read trashy novels. My mother was a huge book-lover, a teacher, and a bit of an intellectual. My earliest memory of her is of her reading to us. We, her offspring, read copiously as children and teens (that was just what people did in their free time, wasn't it?). And because my mother was very aware that what you read influences how you think, she ensured that we had access to books of substance. Those were what she bought and read to us, and so those influenced our tastes as we began choosing our own reading material. As a writer myself, I can't stand trashy junk-food novels -- the mass-produced brain-clogging recycled intellectual and emotional pablum that serves only to give your eye muscles a little exercise but not your brain. But even though I haven't even been reading trash, this book makes me think 'this is what stories are supposed to be.' This level of intensity, this real, this rich, this deep, this poetic/allegorical to the mysteries of real life. It's like every story I've ever read to this point in my life has been a cheap facsimile of a real story.

I needed to read this story now, at this point in my life. It speaks to so much of what I've been thinking about and going through lately and puts a lot of it into perspective.

For a while now, I've been realising that I'm different, on a fundamental level, from most people. Even writing that sounds a little boastful, and I don't mean it to be. I mean it only as an observation. I'm beginning to realise that not everyone sees what I see (intellectually/spiritually/emotionally) -- they don't make the connections that I do. When artists say 'people don't get it,' they actually mean that -- people really, truly, do not get it. And it's frustrating because to me it seems to obvious, so simple, so logical, if only you pause and think about it a little. It's like I can see -- however dimly -- what goes on behind the curtain of the empirical world while most everybody else seems to not even realise there IS a curtain.

And although the layperson might think it's cool and fun to see things others don't -- I used to think the same thing till I realised I was one of them -- it's actually so frustrating. You can only converse with people in shallow terms on shallow subjects. As soon as you try to steer the conversation to something that actually does interest you, challenge you intellectually, they check out and tell you you're getting 'too personal.' It's like how a mother feels when they're cooped up in the house or the car with their two-year-old all day long -- it's like you can feel your brain atrophy because of the lack of conversational/intellectual stimulation. Except I experience this adult-in-a-room-of-two-year-olds phenomenon indefinitely -- the only person who seemed to 'get' what I see died three and a half years ago.

It's not something to brag about. It's more of a curse. (Yes, I do realise how cliché that sounds, but it's an accurate description.) It's like I'm doomed to forever be misunderstood and patronised. I've written before on how I often feel the weight of other people's pain and concerns -- things that don't bother my life but weigh on them -- so heavily that often I physically can't breathe.

Every so often, usually at a time when the weight seems heavier than normal, I'll ask God, 'why me?' Why did He choose me to be one of the misunderstood, one of the special ones? Must I be alone in this heavy calling to see so much -- and be completely unable to do anything with that information?

(Spoilers ahead.)

There's a scene in Perelandra in which Dr Ransom grapples with the same question -- why must he fight the spirit that threatens the planet's sacred, fragile innocence? Why not Maleldil? Why not anybody else? Why him? He's nothing special. And I recognised, on a gut level, all those questions because I have asked them myself. Why me? Why am I the one chosen for such a lonely life? Why must I be so completely and incredibly alone, in every possible sense of the word?

This, naturally, turned my thoughts to my own half-finished novel Kyrie. The main characters touch on similar questions within their own experiences. Those two characters represent a friendship that I long for in real life -- that platonic intellectual thing that is completely at home and comfortable with the other person in their questions, exactly where they are at, engaging with them but not lecturing. The entire novel is basically me laying out the kind of friendship I long for in real life but -- I'm realising -- may never actually have again. It's the relationship Ransom has with the Green Lady of Perelandra -- intellectual and innocent.

This further turned my thoughts to a specific friendship I'm in -- one that I hoped would turn into 'something more,' as people like to put it, but so far has not. Yet we somehow have remained good friends. This person has seen me at some of my most broken and vulnerable moments and was content to simply exist alongside me in those times, without lecturing or proselytising, just existing and listening (exactly the thing I need that apparently seems to elude everyone else despite my detailed explanations that this is the thing I want to you to do if I'm struggling). Lately I've been wondering if this is, in fact, that deep comfortable companionship I've been longing for. Perhaps we have been denied romance because romance would cheapen (or needlessly complicate) what we have. I have been trying to be more content with our relationship as it currently is -- not focusing on what I want it to be. In the words of the Lady, "The fruit we are eating is always the best fruit of all."

And there's the other question: am I alone?

In that same scene, Ransom eventually hears from the darkness what he must do and despite his fear, he knows (somehow beyond explanation, but I 'get' it because I've experienced that deep certainty myself at times) that he will succeed in his task. It's no secret that the voice out of the darkness is Maleldil, and it's also no secret in the novel who Maleldil represents.

Something in me still doesn't want this answer to be enough (a held-over scar from the Year of Hell), but it's a question I can't not even consider.

(Possibly more thoughts to come as I finish the story.)


REFERENCES
Buechner, Frederick, The Clown in the Belfry, 1992.

Music Day - Glory Battle

We've had this album since it came out, but it was only over July that I really listened to this song (or the whole album, really). This song in particular appeals to my classical ballet mind. It's the dance of a fight between good and evil, between angels and demons, both clawing for the same soul.

Last March, while recovering from strep throat, I read Frank Peretti's This Present Darkness, and that book has stuck in my head, both as a reader and as a writer. As a reader, I enjoyed the story -- the soft-spoken unrelenting faith of the pastor, the confusion and determination of the newspaper manager, the spunk and pluck of the reporter, the self-righteousness of the church deacons, the rebellious attitude of the daughter, the strategising between the demons and the angels... it was one of the most engaging things I've ever read. I literally read the entire thing cover to cover in one night. As a writer, I appreciated the colourful detail in every scene -- rich without being overdone -- as well as the subtle humour employed throughout. Even in very serious scenes, one careful turn of phrase, one character's well-timed glance could send me into a fit of laughter. Peretti has a gift -- I've never seen anything like that anywhere else, and I used to read quite a bit of this genre (back when I had time to read for pleasure).

Shortly after I read that book, I began thinking: what it would be like to stage that story, as a dance? You would need music for that, of course, but provided I could find a composer... could I do it? Could I portray the characters without speech and wearing ballet slippers? I haven't answered that question yet, but now that the germ of the idea is in my head, I sometimes find a little something that might fit in the dance version of the story... this song is one of those.

(Trivia: This same artist has actually written an instrumental song based on This Present Darkness (source: album liner notes) in 1988. The song, Ashton, is on the album i 2 (EYE). Music Day post here.)

Title: Glory Battle
Artist: Michael W. Smith
Album: Glory
Year: 2011
Label: Provident
iTunes here; YouTube here.

Besides the music of David Meece (and Pachelbel's Canon In D), this is probably the closest I get to classical music. It's not that I don't like it, it's just that it always seems so stuffy and elitist (kind of like some of us 'Jesus Music' fans, come to think of it...), and I can never keep track of all the composers and the names and variations of their works. But this piece is amazing. It's sweeping, majestic, strong, rushing -- it sounds exactly like a battle. There's the start, and then the initial battle, and then someone retreats and the music turns mournful... then clear and a little hopeful. The sides regroup, and suddenly there's a thunderous second assault. It's enough to make me want to get into more classical music. (Feel free to make suggestions in the comments!)

I love the string parts in this song. They contribute so much tension to the piece.