On anxiety and creativity: when navigating ambiguity, storytelling can be dangerous
exploring the stories we tell ourselves when no one is watching or, maybe worse, when it seems everyone is
“You’re never going to kill storytelling because it’s built into the human plan. We come with it.”
—Margaret Atwood
In the last few weeks, life has felt particularly heavy due to many unknowns.
I found myself navigating the process of buying a new house during a faltering economy and job uncertainty; meanwhile, my husband was diagnosed with a genetic disease, hemochromatosis, which makes the body store too much iron. This diagnosis came at a time when he can still reverse damage, but we had to go from appointment to appointment to determine this.
The stress of unknowing settled in my neck and blurred my thoughts.
In the days of unknowing, while we also waited for an inspection on the new house and test results to come in, my head pulsed with pain and, I’ll admit, my imagination went wild. Migraines always hit me during times of stress, and these past few weeks have been particularly rough.
I kept reaching for the one thing I’d been doing less of since returning from Vermont: writing to find out what I actually thought. Writing to process. Writing to journal and dream. Writing to connect to a different part of myself—the part that doesn’t feel anxiety but, rather, flow.
When I was 19 and began writing compulsively, I had started for purely therapeutic reasons.
I found that writing was a way of building self-awareness but also exploring the stories that fed my anxieties. Seeing my own thoughts in black and white showed me how my mind worked and helped me to clarify my existence.
Writing alone in a room with a question or two propelling me forward and my imagination focused on creation, rather than explanation, led me to what Joseph Campbell called the path of bliss. It was a freedom and coming home to curiosity over speculation.
Anxiety, I firmly believe, is just creative energy working against us. It is pure speculation. And it’s addictive, especially when the world feels heavy.
A life of creative exploration, à la Hurston (see last blog post), is innately fulfilling but easy to lose track of when we get caught up in our own stories about the past and future. Or stories about how the world should act or react to what we do.
Things are clarifying in my own life.
My house purchase is going well, and my husband’s diagnosis means lifestyle changes for him, but it no longer carries the weight of the unknown. My headaches are easing, though they are still something of a mystery (possible causes: hormones, food, environment, the state of the world).
But I remember the reason I do what I do, which is to return to curiosity and release the grip of storytelling that feels more like torture than bliss.
To process on the page, honestly and as person navigating the world, is to find the opposite of anxiety. It’s to find that bliss Campbell spoke of. But to do any of that, we have to remember what we don’t know.
Getting clear about what we don’t know, after all, is where we truly create.
Jen, I'm sorry it's been such a stressful time. I'm glad your husband's condition was caught in time to reverse effects but I do understand that the lifestyle changes are now a constant. I went through this with my husband's diabetes. I'm glad the house buying is moving forward. I understand the tension settling in the neck and shoulders and constant anxiety. I just went through this and also the onset of chronic migraines. It is such a debilitating time and sometimes paralyzing. All the unknown and stressors built up and manifested in physical pain. My migraines come and go. They started about five years ago. Sometimes an onslaught, sometimes I can go for about a month with none. I'm glad you found writing to be your outlet for reflection and understanding. I think that's what one needs. To look within to heal. Not towards an external project except the project of the self. I find it hard to write because of pain and brain fog. But I turn to art and ekphrases and, when I can concentrate, reading. Poetry, stories, myths, anything to help me attain meaning. When I emerge I find myself stronger and able to write in a different way. A deeper way. I'm glad you were able to do that through your pain. I wish you all the health in the world and to your husband. I look forward to seeing you at the next meeting. Always best wishes to you.
Oh Jen I’m sorry. Getting hit with a triple whammy is a test of emotional and spiritual maturity. I learned to never ask Why? Taking actions helps, a To Do list grounds my new day until it all gets too big and I freeze. Years of escaping to elsewhere make it hard for me to pick up a pen and face the page. An open notebook on a desk is an anchor in a safe harbor, and yet it is only in hindsight that I can write. I honor your discipline and guts.