the summer blues, vampires, and a 31 day writing experiment
to be myself more often than I am not
freshly squeezed is home to all of my writing experiments
The earth was spongy beneath my feet and when I looked up I couldn't see the sky, only layers and layers of tree branches descending down to the ground with the moss and the slugs and the roots jutting up from the trail.
I'm listening to Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil, a dark and wonderful fantasy by V.E Schwab that follows three women across many lifetimes, and a welcomed companion to my afternoon walk; while sometimes I crave the quiet, the sound of rain hitting the canopy of trees and the thud of my heart in my chest as I make my way up before I go down, with thoughts that are never too sticky or attached or nagging or loud, just steadily there, like my own personal thought-podcast.
Today is not one of those days, today I reach for distraction in its simplest form: a vampire fantasy.
Last night I talked with C in the yard. The light in the sky was dimming and we were marveling at how the tiny leaves on the tiny maple tree were already turning red and she told me that she read or heard something somewhere that said seasonal affective disorder can be applied to all of the seasons, not just winter, and I laughed and said, “how could I have missed this, it’s right there in the name!?”
Hours later, as I was drifting off to sleep, I make a silent declaration, promising myself I’d write it all down in the morning — I did not (but I’ll do my best to summarize it now): how dare we seek refuge in the dark! How dare we find inspiration in the fold just between day and night, when the last slanting rays of sun are being swallowed up by shadows and mist and everything goes completely still and we listen and we scheme and we tend to and we rest, taking note of what’s been working, and what we’d rather leave behind.
It’s almost as if a gloriously gloomy day gives me permission to rest, to focus in on, to rebuild, to deconstruct, to allow my wild moods to run rampant around the house without prying eyes or the expectation of doing more, being more (permission I, for some reason, often feel I can’t give myself).
When we first moved here five months ago, I told myself I would go for a walk every day, that it would be rejuvenating and accessible. That it would become an integral part of my morning routine, releasing my mind from anxiety’s grip so that I could then better apply myself to a project or an idea without interruption.
Quickly, or maybe not so quickly, I realized that going for a walk every morning would not, in fact, fix my anxiety. That instead, my morning routine would take on many different shapes, some wonderful (like flower picking) and some more difficult (willing my back pain to simply move on because no, just no). That adjustments would have to be made again and again and again until eventually, 'making adjustments' became the centerfold of my morning, of my entire day.
Which is why, as I set off on my walk with my headphones on and my mind in a world full of blood thirsty vampires, I did not beat myself up over 'not being present enough,’ and instead, found myself acutely aware of the fact that I was moving my body — that after all these years, I could find new ways to be kind to it when it is tired and fed up after 6-months of treatment because yes, while I am, for the most part, hopeful that it will help and determined to keep going, sometimes the hope feels just out of reach and I’d rather put my head down right here and rest and wait and wait.
My hope is that I can pay a similar amount (and a similar kind) of attention to my needs when treatment is over. When the walks maybe get longer and quieter because my anxiety is lessening and my thought-podcast is no longer glitching and everything is always changing and maybe I just want to try and figure out a way to be myself more often than I am not.
In a way, being 'unwell' is more comfortable to me than being 'well,' only because I've spent more time in one over the other, and as I move throughout my day, engaging in this because I need to, then choosing not to engage in that because I don’t have to; I'm made aware of this delicate balancing act, this listening to the part of me that is in pain and wants more rest, as well as the part of me that has multitudes of ideas swirling around inside, eager to be let out.
In part, building back up my trust-with-self has been made possible by: the people around me who already know how to trust themselves, love themselves, and respect their own systems and boundaries, showing me that I too am allowed to take care of myself, to give myself what I need.
By the time I got home from my walk the house was dark and cold and so I put water in the kettle and made myself some tea with milk and honey, grabbing the light from my bedside and turning it to the ‘flicker like a candle’ setting, then deciding I was going to write.
I'm writing to write and to share with the hope of working through my fear of sharing what I write. I'm writing because writing has always been the easiest thing for me to do (once I’ve gotten myself going), and the hardest thing for me to start (after months of being “too busy”). Unfortunately, or fortunately, my writing has always steered in the direction of the deeply personal. The big, messy, and often chaotic emotions that continue to spill over onto everything, especially when I'm trying to contain them.
When I was first diagnosed with bipolar, I began to fear my emotions, thinking that they were all too much of the wrong thing. Too loud, too dramatic, too angry and so I backed away from them as quickly as I could, keeping them at arms length until eventually, and mostly out of my own desperation to create again, I very cautiously and very slowly began to let them back in.
Around that same time, I also decided I was no longer going to share my bipolar diagnosis (or any other medical diagnosis) on the internet, just as I was no longer going to write about my chronic illness: from now on, everything I shared would be lighter, more digestible, and incredibly easy to explain.
I do not blame myself for setting those boundaries, just as I do not blame myself for not knowing that in setting them, I had inadvertently cut myself off from the part of myself that I needed in order to create again (or maybe more accurately: to be myself).
Journaling has helped, a steady reminder that I am safe to write. That my emotions are safe to be with. That I am not too much of anything. So has having my own personal projects, like pottery, where I’m learning and re-learning to better discern between my varying capacities: today I’m thinking of spending the afternoon in the studio vs. today I think I’ll doodle up some pottery designs from home.
Today I’d like to go for a short walk vs. today I’m going to move my body by stretching on the floor for five minutes.
Today I feel safe to write about myself in a more personal way through my newsletter vs. today I’ll stick with journaling or an audiobook.
Today I'd like to reach out to a friend to see if they’d want to catch up over coffee vs. today I’ll send them a voice-note to let them know I’m thinking of them.
Today I’ll tell the person that inquired about the work I do that I have limitations that could very well impact my ability to work “normal” hours vs. today I’ll tell the person that inquired about the work that I do that I’m so glad they reached out and I’ll ’get back to them soon.’
In honor of this explanation point of an email, I have some exciting news: I'll be embarking on a writing experiment (31 days of prose from October 1st - 31st), and I’d love for you to join me.
You can find out the where’s and why’s of it all, here.
Talk soon,
Chloe
e: hello@chloealmeda.com
w: chloealmeda.com
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Some of my other creative experiments include —
making pottery
re-stocking the library
& spending time in a home for creating, a private community space hosted on Notion and designed to better support how you choose to create, learn, experiment, share, and be inspired
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