Say what?

A year ago, I wrote that after taking a much-needed break from long hours and deadlines, I spent a month long pilgrimage in Europe to clear my mind. I also wrote that I ultimately found the clarity and vision that I sought in my own little corner of the world — not in any far-off land . A few months ago, I began to feel as if this same corner was stifling me. Some days I felt as if I couldn’t breathe...as if I needed to escape. Was it because I no longer read as voraciously as in the past? Believe me, I tried. My own voice was so strong that I couldn’t concentrate on the written words of others. I wondered if my desire to flee was because I no longer traveled much and I longed for the diversity that had always energized and nourished my soul. I didn’t have the answer, but I did know that my view was restricted.

I thought about the many wise life choices I had made in the past 12-months. Then I thought about other choices that might be contributing to my angst. For the first time in years, I have let new people into my world. I took down the walls and exposed myself for all to see — from Bangladesh to London to Afghanistan (if my site meter is to be believed). I went out on that limb, and took a risk. The risk I didn’t mind. Perhaps it was the judgment of others that was affecting me. Not from my readers, but from people who should know me, but don’t. No, this was not the cause of my angst, but a symptom to be sure.

Many people, family and friends included, read my essays each week. In recent months, I found myself editing, re-editing and even censoring my thoughts. I labored over every written word as if it might be my last. I worried that I might offend someone — or inadvertently hurt the feelings of a loved one. I recognized that I was ignoring my instincts. The irony punched me in the nose. When I first began writing my essays, I stepped to the edge and threw caution to the wind. I felt that my words were evergreen. Now I worried that I might lose my edge if I didn’t step out from beyond whatever self-imposed walls were confining me. What was happening to me? Why was I “thinking” so much? What happened to my grit? I didn’t know, but it was time I found out.

The most difficult part of this new pilgrimage was that I had to acknowledge that my darling husband had something to do with my malaise, though not knowingly. He is still my biggest fan, and I feel blessed to have him in my life. It was something he said a few months ago, a comment that found a willing target — me. He said that I spent too much time on the computer — writing, responded to my readers, reading other blogs, and working on my book proposal. Let me take a moment and point out that my husband had never said anything like this to me in the 17 years we’ve been together. It was because of his affable, hands-off approach in the past, that I took his comment to heart. I didn’t stop to think that this comment might be tied to his difficult knee surgery that wasn’t as pain-free and easy to recover from as his doctor (and therapist) had led us to believe. I didn’t stop to think that he was taking a lot (really a lot) of medication each day and could have been in an altered state when he made this comment. I didn’t even stop to think that I was already spending more time with him on a daily basis than I had in the last six years combined? I just reacted immediately.

I stopped working early mornings and later in the evening. I tried to accomplish everything, including writing for myself, writing for my clients, taking care of him and the home front, within a given (and drastically shortened) parameter of time. I set myself up to fail. Everything suffered. I became inefficient and disorganized — adjectives not usually found in my playbook. Each morning I arose and took one-step forward. By the end of the day, I felt as if I had taken 10-steps backward. I was exhausted each night, with hardly had anything to show for my effort. I also stopped exercising. I didn’t have time for my daily walk and my weekly classes at the gym. As I look back, I see that time was sufficient; it was me who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) adjust.

As I tried to reinvent myself and adapt to an ill-fitting schedule, every night was the same. My husband would come home from work, fall asleep icing his knee next to me, and we would watch TV. We abandoned our usual walks, soaking in the Jacuzzi or getting together with friends and neighbors. He didn’t feel like doing anything. He was exhausted and his knee hurt. Just getting through his workday was chore enough. So, night after night there we sat. He would fall asleep after an hour or so, and I would continue to sit with him and watch whatever was playing on Tivo.

So, there I sat...by my husband’s side as he slept. Then we went to bed. I didn’t write, catch up on emails, take care of paperwork, or return phone calls. Somewhere along the line, he started to heal — and I started to hurt. I didn’t recognize the signs at first, but eventually I realized that when I shut off the computer, I was shutting off a part of myself — the creative part. My mind was obsessed with the Herculean tasks I would try to accomplish the next day. Sunday nights were the worst, as I tried to leave Monday until Monday arrived. Soon, I dreaded Sunday and felt a slave to Monday — which was the day I allotted in my shortened schedule to write the first draft of an article. The pressure was extreme and I began to turn down lucrative freelance jobs because I didn’t have time.

A few weeks into this new schedule, my husband started coming home for lunch each day. This I encouraged, as he needed to rest his leg and get nourishment he would have skipped if left to his own devices. The problem was that I never knew when he would be home for lunch. He might call and be on the way, and then something would come up and he would be late – sometimes over an hour late. He couldn’t call because would be on the phone putting out fires or didn’t have a cell signal. Generally, this occurred after I rearranged everything to accommodate him and lunch was on the table. I could have been on the way to the gym, or just getting ready to shower, and I would put everything on hold. The things on hold were never revisited that day — except the shower, of course. Eventually, I began to feel the same angst as in the latter days of running my agency. Deadline, deadline, deadline. Everything was a deadline. I became cranky, listless and angry. Writing became a chore.

Every week I forced myself to write at a specific time. It wasn’t working. Before my husband’s comment, I was relaxed and casual with my writing schedule. If I had an idea on a Sunday afternoon, or after dinner, I would sit down for an hour and knock out a few paragraphs...and finish it later. My new, husband-friendly schedule had me constantly worried that I wouldn’t have anything to write, or that if I had a gleam of an idea, the words wouldn’t flow on demand. Then there were the emergencies that would interrupt my schedule and push my writing into Tuesday. This would ruin the entire week. There I was trying to contain my creative side inside a confining, and suffocating, box. It didn’t serve me (or my husband) well.

After a particularly hard week, I finally snapped. No dinner made, no grocery shopping done, and certainly no trips to Costco. My husband thought I was sick. I knew I was. I was sick at heart — bottled up and miserable. I was tired all of the time. Still I didn’t know why. Again, I tried to analyze my situation. Was this angst female related? Was I depressed? Anemic? I started drinking green tea and taking my temperature. I even bought some dark “mood enhancing” chocolate. Nothing, not even the chocolate, worked.

Then we went away for the weekend — we left the hood for the first time in four months. I didn’t experience an epiphany, but I did relax. I also left my laptop at home. The change of scenery (away from my “boxed in” corner) restored a bit of my clarity. My vision improved and I looked at myself from the outside in...and I finally figured it out.

The evening after we returned from our getaway, I told my husband that I needed to work a bit that night, and I hoped he didn’t mind. I explained that I had some deadlines for clients, and an idea for an article that I wanted to outline. He looked at me as if I were crazy. “Why would I mind?” he asked. It was my turn to give him the “are you crazy” look. I reminded him of his comment a few months back. He looked even more puzzled and said he didn’t remember that discussion. I think he said I must have been dreaming. I thought, but didn’t say, “Some dream.”

I guess pain and Vicodin are a potent combination — mood altering to be sure. My husband made an uncharacteristic remark that he doesn’t remember. I took uncharacteristic action and didn’t clarify his meaning, or broach the subject again. Perhaps his comment just referred to that night, or until he was feeling better. Maybe he just said something that he didn’t mean. I know I didn’t hear him incorrectly, as that would be impossible. Whatever he did or didn’t mean, I’m through the worst of it...and so is he. Lest you think I resent these past few months, sitting beside my husband while he slept and recuperated, I don’t. He needed me by his side, whether he admits he asked or not, and I needed to be there.

Later that night, after my husband fell asleep in front of the TV, I wrote...and wrote and wrote. Not this article, but something else — something that had been on my mind, but couldn’t be summoned forth at a predetermined time. The house was quiet, my husband was resting peacefully, and my fingers flew quickly and happily over the keyboard. As the nasty and confining box collapsed, I emerged with my voice intact and the satisfaction that all was well in my little corner of the world once again...and with the man lying asleep on the sofa.

The gloves are off, my indecision gone. I am back. I must apologize to the environmentalists though, of which I am one. I threw that confining box away. I put it in the trash. I would normally put the cardboard in the recycling bin, but I worried that it would end up in the wrong hands. It’s not easy to climb out of a box, especially when you don’t know you’re in one. I wouldn’t want to recycle this journey to anyone — friend or foe.

Dedicated to my husband — I’m so happy you’re feeling better. Let’s take a walk and then soak in the Jacuzzi. I’ll let you take it from there.

© 2006 Teresa G. Franta