NaNoWriMo - To Write, or Not to Write

I started to seriously considering writing, as an option, a hobby, maybe one day a career, at about this time last year.

I had read Divergent and fallen in love with books more than I ever had. And I loved reading before. But something about the world and Tris’ voice and Veronica’s blog opened something in my soul that I didn’t really know was there.

A desire to write, not just autobiographically, or spiritually as I had been periodically doing,

but a desire to write novels.

And a desire to write to connect with others, rather than just share my testimony or feelings about something.

A whole new world of possibilities opened up to me. Novels, blogging better and more honestly, touching lives with both fiction and real-life vulnerability.

I got excited. Really excited. I found as many blogs as I could about writing. I wrote down ideas that came to me. I talked to a few of my friends who are writers. I dreamed. I made a goal to read every day.

That alone was a big change for me. I had no self-control when it came to reading so my rule during my previous 5 years of school was no reading during the semester. Now, I was starting up my last semester, arguably my most difficult (if only because my senioritis hit new heights), and I was reading every day.

I knew I couldn’t commit to actually starting my novel until I was done with school because I knew it would consume me. So I planned it as best I could, having absolutely no writing classes under my belt (other than “writing in the social sciences” which is a different solar system than writing fiction), or knowledge of how best to tackle the scary goal of “WRITING A NOVEL.”

Graduation came on a sticky May afternoon full of accomplishment and smiles and gratitude and family and rushing to move on to bigger and better things. 

(Not to mention an amazing hug from my gorgeous professor from my first semester).

Sarah took me 2 days later to New York City and my mind was full of Wicked and $1 pizza, gorgeous buildings and discovering publishing companies, tour bus rides and museums, painful feet and biting wind and falling in love with a city which reason and practicality tell me will never be my home, no matter how much I may want it.

I'd had 5 months of build up to writing MY novel and I couldn’t be more full of hope and passion. I was ready. I would get home from the Big Apple and finally put that world on paper. 

And then the exhaustion set in. 

The fatigue that comes from starting your graduate program 11 days after graduating with your Bachelor’s. 

From a year of wonderful and scary and healing sessions with clients who shape your first year of seeing clients but leave you unsure how to take care of yourself. 

From having a perfectionist brain with a broken body that keeps breaking in new, bone-breaking, world-shattering ways.

From going non-stop on vacation because your spirit is enlivened but you body is begging you to stop. 

So I slept, and despite the darkness covering my mind and soul, dreamed of those characters and that world.

Finally, I started writing. Putting words to the story that had been building slowly in my mind for the past 10 months.

And I wrote 5,000 words my first go!

And it felt amazing. Maybe I could do this. This big, scary, wonderful thing. 

But, it was also tiring. Physically. Emotionally. 

So the time between each writing session became longer and longer and the word count dropped lower and lower.

All the while the darkness became darker and the hope became dimmer.

Finally, I re-read the story I’d written so far and realized that the main character in my head was NOT the person coming out onto the pages.

Where I meant her to be proud of her differences, she was beaten down by them.

Where I meant her to be inspirational, she was unsure of who she was and what she had to offer.

Now, I know those traits would have develop throughout the book if I had continued, but it was happening different than I wanted. Different than the character in my head wanted.

It wasn’t happening for the sake of the story, or the characterization, or any reason contained within the novel.

It was happening because of my Depression. My doubt, my feelings of being beaten down were seeping onto the pages, darkening them in ways I didn’t intend.

And if I learned anything as a therapist over the last year, it’s that if something is coming from me and my needs rather than my client’s needs, I need to re-evaluate and change something.

Movement in therapy should always be client-driven, not come from the experiences or needs of the therapist.

Movement in stories should always be character-driven, not come from the un-related sufferings of the writer. At least, that was how it felt at the time, for this book. (Maybe there are times where this is good; I don’t want to assume I know better than other authors for their own work).

Not only was the story not going in the direction it needed to, but it was starting from the very first page in the wrong place.

So, I decided to take a break.

Wait until I was in the right state of mind and heart to write the story that I had planned.

I was exhausted and had no faith in myself to get anything done. Just getting out of bed took all my mental energy. I had so many plans for my last, little break before real life set in and I didn't do any of them. I couldn't. The weight and heaviness and pain from my body was somehow transferring to my mind and I was helpless to stop it. 

I convinced myself I was lazy because any normal person can get their ass off the couch and do something. But I couldn't. There was a weight in my chest (anxiety, maybe?) that prevented me from stepping out the door unless absolutely necessary and doing anything of value inside the safety of my apartment. 

Even reading, which is my favorite thing in the world, took more energy than I typically had. I would just stare at my bookshelf and sigh because I couldn't invest in the stories I loved so much. 

The one thing I could do was watch TV. (And look at Pinterest, of course). So, I self-medicated with Netflix. 

Sherlock, 

Grey’s Anatomy, 

How I Met Your Mother, 

Doctor Who, 

Torchwood, 

Merlin, 

Heroes, 

Parenthood…

Seriously, y’all, it was a problem.

For what it’s worth, watching these shows did keep me from going to a much darker, scarier place. I honestly believe that if I hadn’t had these shows to turn off my brain and actually enjoy something, I would have had some serious suicide ideation. I like to think I would never become actively suicidal, but ideation was within my realm of possibilities. These shows, thankfully, kept those thoughts at bay.

So, yes, I numbed out with TV.

I still do, sometimes when I need to, sometimes when I don’t.

I’m doing a little better. I think. I’m trying to work out seeing my own therapist, because God knows, I need one. But it is difficult in my current financial situation. I’m reading blogs of people who have gone through trials that have similarities to mine, seeing what helped them, trying to find way to cope with the life ahead of me. And it’s helping. Slowly.

But I think the desire to write is back.

And today is the beginning of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The 30 days each year in which writers all over the world commit to writing 50,000 words of a novel. Or at least trying to.

Coincidence? Maybe.

If I’m honest with myself, however, I’m not sure a novel is something I can do right now.

I know I’m not ready to commit to writing that much in the story I began in June. And I don’t have any other novel ideas.

But I still want to write. And I think I still want to try to write 50,000 words this month.

Some of it will be in my journal. Some of it will be on my laptop (to ease in speed and word tracking). Some of it, hopefully, will be working on my WIP. Some of it I will post here.

I have a lot of things to work out in my mind, in my heart, and I’m finally in a place where I think I can start putting the words down again.

I might find out I’m not actually ready, but I want to try.

I might not hit the word count goal, might not even get close. But I want to try.

And I want to be a part of the writing frenzy that will be happening everywhere. I want to support my writer friends who are taking the challenge on, whether as is or modifying it to fit their needs (with editing and the like).

Hopefully, as I work things out, I’ll feel that darkness lift and I’ll be able to get back to my WIP.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to fully participate in NaNoWriMo 2014.

But for now, I will write my story.

And that is enough.

To everyone doing NaNoWriMo, GOOD LUCK!!! I’m so looking forward to hearing about your stories and progress! You can do it!!!!

*Image Source

Oh hi, remember me?

Hi, my name is Rachel.

Hi, Rachel.

It's been 4 months since my last post. What is that about?

Well, it's about general life suckage and not wanting to bring others down. And depression keeping my fingers from writing the words my brain can't stop thinking. 

Did I just come out about my depression? Yes, I think I did. 

I've had a horrible summer. And yes, it is still summer in Southeast Texas, despite being a month into technical Fall. Someday I will move to a climate that matches my personality better. Like Seattle. Or England. 

Please, please, please, God, let that happen someday. The constant heat, sunlight, and humidity saps away my identity. I need clouds and cool weather, scarves and jackets, boots and hats. Amen.

I'm not going to go into all of why I'm struggling right now. That would take way more than anyone would want to read in one post. But, I wanted to put it out there that I am fighting depression right now and it sucks. 

I said I didn't want to bring others down by talking about it. As a therapist, I know that talking about things is good. As a writer, I know that writing my experience can be healing. As a blog reader, I know how freeing it can be to read my own feelings in someone else's words. I know that depression shouldn't be a block for writing and connecting with people. But it is. And here's why it is for me. Or, at least part of why. 

When I was around 7 years old, my family went to a session of family therapy. I remember nothing about it except one question and family conversation that shaped the rest of my life. 

The therapist, for some reason, asked us who was the most mentally stable member of the family. Through a short discussion, it was decided that I, a little 7 year old with horrible bangs and an underbite, was the most stable. 

(As a therapist now, I can not even fathom what on earth that therapist was thinking by asking such a question. Because A, it doesn't matter who is the most stable. And B, that is wayyy too much responsibility to place on anyone, let alone a 7 year old, youngest child who wants nothing more than to be the best daughter and sister possible).

That decision told me for the next 17+ years that I had to be strong. I had to be happy and optimistic and a "peacemaker" and if I was sad, doubtful, hopeless, upset, I needed to hide it for the sake of my entire family. My little 7 year old mind learned that the future of my family rested on me being happy and obedient and faithful (because the therapist was a member of our church, so though I don't remember, I am positive aspects of faith and lifestyle were talked about there as well). I had to be emotionally perfect or I was letting everyone down. 

That was my role in the family. Happy peacemaker. Though I am trying to change it, in a lot of ways, it still is my role. I don't fault my family at all for this (though I do fault the therapist to some extent). This is part of family dynamics that emerge in every family. Roles develop and family systems strive for homeostasis. I know I am not the only happy peacemaker in the world. It truly is not their fault.

But, it was damaging, as almost any static family role is. 

Except for a 4 month period in 7th grade, when I "rebellious," (read: snuck out to a dance, watched an R-rated movie, fought with my parents) I have striven to be the perfect child. And for the most part I was. And that just further ingrained the belief that I needed to be perfect, because in my mind, it was my emotional stability and happiness that kept the family together and helped things go the best they could, despite some sticky situations. 

I learned to force my sadness away. Because when I was sad, I didn't have enough faith, and if I just had more faith the sadness would go away. 

I learned to completely ignore any doubts or questions I had about our beliefs or the way our family worked. 

I learned that if someone else was upset, it was my job to go cheer them up.

I learned that if two of my family members were mad at each other, I was supposed to go explain the other person's side to calm things down. 

Is it any wonder I became a therapist? 

I learned that any emotion that wasn't positive was bad and I had to get over it. Read my scriptures, pray, serve, get a blessing. Those things would solve everything. 

And for a long time, that worked. My "negative" emotions often weren't strong enough that they needed to be heard or felt. So, they quietly faded into the back of my heart. 

Well, it doesn't work anymore. 

I can't ignore my emotions anymore. 

I can't ignore that my body is being ravaged by a systemic, progressive disease. (Rheumatoid Arthritis, or as many patients prefer, Rheumatoid Disease; arthritis is a symptom, not a cause of the disease). One in which something like only 20% of patients have a 20% improvement on harsh medications. (can't find accurate stats now, will do a post with that info in the future). One that is treated with chemotherapy drugs and biologic shots that cost $2000 a month. One that makes me unable to be insured traditionally because no insurance wants to invest that kind of money into one person. One that makes disability a very real possibility for the near future. 

Every major joint in my body is pounding as I write this. Has been all day. 

Scratch that - all summer. 

I can't ignore how utterly hopeless that makes me feel. 

I can't ignore how fiercely angry it makes me feel, either. 

My 2 month break after graduation to recuperate from Grad school has turned into 5 months of hell.  

There have been moments of good (which I am going to be documenting in pictures soon). But the majority of the time I am paralyzed by pain and fear. 

And it sucks. 

I haven't even been reading much because I can't handle being in my head that much. So, I've numbed the pain with compulsive Netflix watching. And bejewelled blitz. 

(Hello Doctor Who! The Doctor has been a HUGE good that has come from this summer. I'm seriously in love with the show. And did you know, today is Matt Smith's 31st birthday? Happy Birthday, Matt!!!!)

I'm supposed to start working again soon. Which I know in some ways will be really good for me. And I do love being a therapist and I look forward to reconnecting with some of my former clients.  

But mostly, I'm afraid of the pain I will be in driving 45 minutes to work and sitting through sessions and doing the marketing necessary to start up a new client base in a new private practice. 

The reality is that I'm scared. I'm scared that I'm not going to be able to do good therapy anymore. I'm scared I won't find enough clients to pay my bills. I'm scared I'll let my own needs get lost, because that is my definite tendency. Despite my love for doing therapy, there is a big part of me that wonders if it's the best thing for me to be doing now. But any other realistic options are almost as scary for different reasons.

Anyway, back to the purpose of this post... 

Why I didn't write. And why I'm going to try again.

Life became hard enough that I could no longer just write about things that made me happy, like the books I was reading and the novel I was starting. And since there wasn't anything happy to write, I stopped writing. 

Because I've been taught to be silent about my struggles. 

Unless, of course, I have some beautiful, faith-filled explanation of how I see God's hands in my trials. That was the one exception to being silent. 

Well, honestly, I haven't seen His hand in a long time. 

So I was silent. 

But I know that is not good for me. 

And I've been reading a bunch of blogs that make me want to share my experience. And tonight that desire manifested as a near panic attack of writing need. 

I know I need to rock the boat and disengage from the role I've been forced into my whole life. 

It's not right to expect people to ignore their emotions. I believe in emotions. Deeply, fervently. Even the nasty ones. Maybe even especially the nasty ones. 

And I want to express them. I want to put them out there. For me but also, hopefully, for someone else who will read what I write and learn that their emotions, however hard, are okay. 

So, yes, I am sad, depressed, angry, scared. In pain. 

And I don't see the light at the end of the tunnel. I don't know how to have full faith through this. 

I don't see how things are going to get better because the fact is my body is getting worse and worse every day. (My most recent blood test, the Vectra test, put my firmly and decidedly in the severe RA range which means I will have lasting joint damage). And that's scary. 

I don't know how God is being glorified in my suffering or even He is or ever will be. Maybe this is just a shitty result of living in a fallen world. 

I don't know. And I hurt. 

But I don't want to be silent anymore. 

And neither should you. 

You Are More Beautiful Than You Think

Have you seen this? It showed up at least 7 times in my facebook feed yesterday. Check it out

Dove's Real Beauty Sketches

Seriously, check it out. Sorry I don't know how to embed videos. Someday I'll learn.

A retired FBI sketch artist drew women, without seeing them himself, as they described themselves. After being drawn, the women were told to get to know a person assigned to them - a stranger. Then the stranger went in and described the women they talked to.

Without fail, the women described themselves much more harshly than the strangers saw them. In most cases, the differences were huge.

We are taught to be so critical of our appearances. By companies who benefit from our insecurities. Who see us as nothing but a statistic, a faceless person who can provide them with money.

Do they realize what they do to us? I like to think that they don't. But I don't know.

You, dear reader, are more beautiful than you think. Those flaws you think are so apparent that surely everyone sees? They don't. If they do see them, they don't focus on them or care nearly as much about your imperfections as you think.

How much better would we view ourselves if we could see ourselves the way strangers do?

I have a pretty positive view of myself, but I often wonder how much better it would be if I could see myself as others do.

Cut yourself some slack. Everyone else does.

You ARE more beautiful than you think.

Another great resource for defying the beauty standards of the day? Beauty Redefined. Check it!

Note to Self - Speak

A book review of Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson – mild Spoilers and possible traumatic trigger warning

Note to Self:

*Source

Encourage everyone you care about read Speak. Everyone. Share it with your nieces and then talk about it, long and hard. Talk about it with your sisters and grow even closer to them because of it. Suggest it to clients so they can feel they are not alone. Cram it down the throats of as many boys and men as you possibly can. Every. Single. Person. Needs. This. Book. Share it, Rachel. Whatever you do, help this book be read, this message heard.

I have never been so emotionally touched by a book as I just was by reading Speak. I just finished it and immediately had to write about it. Forget homework, forget preparing for your group therapy session tomorrow, forget food, and forget sleep. Get these thoughts down before they leave you.

This book is about Melinda, a freshman in high school who was raped at a party. She didn’t know how to tell anyone so she withdrew deep into herself. Everyone at school thought she was a loser, a freak who never talked and chewed her lips. Her parents and teachers couldn’t understand why her grades were dropping and she was skipping class. No one knew what happened. No one cared.

As an experiential therapist, there is almost nothing I love more than experiencing emotion with other people and hearing the beautiful and haunting ways people describe their emotional experiences. The emotional descriptions in this book are breath-taking. Many times I had to stop reading and just feel the horrible emotions described, amazed that people are strong enough to feel that kind of pain and survive it. Yes, this is fiction, but based on the poem written by the author at the beginning of my copy, thousands of sexual abuse victims felt their experiences had been put to words.

This topic resonates with me so much. I have never been sexually abused, thank God. But I’ve had vivid, horrible dreams about it that made me afraid to sleep for weeks. I have always been very aware of the possibility of sexually abuse, even more so now, having been taught in school that 1 out of 4 women are sexually abused sometime in their life. WHAT?! That’s horrifying.

I’ve felt the fear of being alone outside at night. I’ve had the awkward talk with missionaries, Elders who just couldn’t understand why I was unwilling to go tracting at night in a town with no street lights. I sat there with tears streaming down my face explaining to them the fear I have of that most personal and intimate part of myself being stolen from me. I was so angry at them for not understanding, for not caring, for taking my safety for granted, for assuming that because they feel safe in that situation, I should too.  For thinking I was lazy or disobedient for going in early. Thankfully, they left me alone afterward (probably because they felt too awkward about my tears), but I forever after felt that they saw me as weak. And that is wrong. This is a societal cancer that feeds on the idea that women are weak and can be used in whatever way a man desires. We are not weak. You cannot use us. People, male or female, are not there for the taking. Nothing, hear this loud and clear, NOTHING excuses rape. We are people. And people never, ever deserved to be treated like that.

We need greater awareness. Of rape and how it affects people. We need to be more aware of the effects of abuse of all kinds. We need to be more sensitive to the emotional reactions people have to trauma. We need to be more understanding of the various ways depression and PTSD can manifest. When we notice something is off about someone, we need to show enough interest in and care for that person that they will feel safe enough to share their story with us. We need to teach people that bullying is NOT okay, ever. We need to PURGE the rape myths (she wanted it, it’s not that bad, she didn’t say no, she was drunk so she deserved it, she's a slut so she was asking for it) OUT of people’s heads and hearts. We need to educate on the horrors that come with living in our world, rather than hoping that if we avoid talking about them, they won’t happen. Because they do happen. And because that doesn’t work. Clearly.

We need to do something to heal our society. Do you know what that something is?

Speak.

Recommendation:

- 5 stars

- Everyone needs to read this. Go buy it. NOW.

Tissue Count:

- 3 or 4 – may have different effects on people, based on their reaction to the subject matter

Details for more cautious readers:

- I’m not giving details. Anything that would normally be seen as sexually explicit is used to show how wrong rape is. If you’re uncomfortable with it, read it anyway. You need to. Feel free to contact me if you have questions.