It has been a while since my last post, and I must confess I am disappointed in myself.
In further confession, the reason for my silence has been that I have foolishly adhered to the very idea I rebelled against.
I had told myself that I was going to stay true to myself, and my ideas on writing. I was going to do what I wanted, discuss what I felt like discussing.
And then when it came time to actually write something…. I …stalled.
To be fair to myself, some of the mental block came from my ever temperamental health. Being sick is never fun, and it definitely messes with my cognitive ability. I went through a period of about two months where I was running on autopilot. Higher cognitive functions were a no-go.
But in that period, I tried. I thought about this blog and what i wanted to say. I had some bits and pieces of ideas clattering around my mind, taken from random conversations and mundane pieces of life. But, I could never expand these ideas into something larger, something I felt was worthy of a blog post.
A lot of my ideas were derived from everyday conversations and thoughts. Day to day, daily stuff. But I didn’t want to turn this into a daily, journal type blog. My day to day thoughts and exploits weren’t interesting enough for others to want to read.
Yeah, I’m kind of dumb. I’m working on that.
I still am afraid of, and don’t want, this to become a journal type blog. But what my addled brain was failing to register was that the thoughts that others might be interested in were born from the every day.
And of course, I was breaking my own rule of keeping this blog for me , writing about the things that I wanted to write about. I was already forgetting my purpose: to let my thoughts and ideas roam.
So with that awkwardness behind us ….
One of the trains of thought that kept rattling around my brain was one of identity and belonging.
In a way, it’s fitting for this return post, as the idea was borne from my upset at not being able to write anything (for this blog as well as other projects) for quite a while.
I frequently go through long periods of time, with “long” being anywhere from 6 months to a couple of years, where I am unable to write much of anything at all.
There may be occasional Facebook (or back in the day, LiveJournal) posts. I may scribble a few scraps for a story idea somewhere; pen down a scene or two, scrape out a bit of poetry, but for the most part no really solid writing happens. There are no new stories, no character development, no chapters or pages.
A lot of it has to do with my health. When my body doesn’t work, the brain tends to go with it, and my ability to write (and even think) coherently is diminished. Cognitive dysfunction is a pretty major symptom of Chronic Fatigue/Fibromyalgia, and it’s something I’ve struggled with for many years. It’s like someone stuffed cotton…in my *brain*. There are thoughts and ideas and critical thinking abilities, but they’re all covered in fog… dense, gray, suffocating fog. Nothing flows or moves easily through the mind in times like this, and just when one manages to reach and grab a thought or coherent bit of language, the fog turns to smoke, and slips through one’s metaphorical fingers.
After a long enough period of this, you start to wonder, and doubt. Did you *ever* have the ability to think, work and write coherently? Was it all just a dream, were you fooling yourself?
Depression is also a part of this phase… and the inevitable thoughts surface:
If you can’t write any more, if you haven’t written in x years, are you still a writer?
This is where my mind starts twisting in on itself about the concept of identity.
How much of an identity is what you think of yourself, versus what others think of you, versus, what you actually do?
That is, if I only write occasionally, and don’t think of myself as a writer… but others view me as a writer, and I am actually writing (if sporadically), which is my identity? Writer or not?
Am I defined by my illness? Many would say no, absolutely not.
But as much as I’d like to believe that, it’s hard to think otherwise when I see how much it affects me, changes me, and guides my course in life.
So maybe I AM a writer, but I’m also a girl with a/n (sometimes debilitating) illness. So the illness changes the nature of the writing identity. I suppose I should just embrace that, and accept all aspects of my identity.
So perhaps it’s not that identity is solely what you think of yourself, or what others perceive you to be, or just your actions. It’s a multi-faced gem of all of these and a few other ideas as well. Even more, I think some parts of one’s identity can be, fluid and changing, evolving as the individual goes through life experiences.That is, the core aspects remain the same, but humans (tend to be) are more complicated than a single core aspect. So those labels that we layer on ourselves, those can be changed.
I can be a writer… who is also dealing with an illness, who may not be as prolific as another person, but are still.. a writer.
There was another point I wanted to make here, but I’m going to rely on the “occasional cognitive dysfunction” part of my identity and call it a day and let this post go to roost. 😉