On Being a Work of Art

I no can tell you how jealous I am of people who donʻt have depression or anxiety. People who donʻt feel like theyʻre teetering on the precipice of mental well-being. When I go for a walk or Iʻm driving to work or something, I look at random folks and wonder, "Is she happy? Is he doing what he wants? Are they content? Are they with the people they want to be with? Where is this person on their journey?" I wonder if theyʻre as fucked up as I can be.

I havenʻt always been this person. Obviously. Sorry for insulting your intelligence there, I simply needed to state that for my own sanity. For better or worse, I havenʻt always been this person. This unsure, weepy, no-light having person.

When I think about that perfect Spring Break Friday back in, like, 2017, where everything just sort of fell into place, where I started the day on my own, letting the universe unfold its path before me, and having the universe-- in the form of my friends, Heather and Keahi, and my sister, Shelley-- meet me exactly where I was, I marvel at the faith I had that the universe would provide. And it did provide. A completely unplanned day where events unfolded as they were supposed to in accordance with the void. A day after which I was super relaxed and elated not just because I did fun things, but because the universe answered my call.

That was trust.

And today, Iʻm envious of all of you who feel that trust in the world. Who trust yourselves and in the space you occupy.

Because hereʻs what I trust at the moment:

• I have the physical strength to easily haul my bicycle up and down the steps of my apartment and then reliably tether it to the car rack with a piece of rope.
• My therapist, the awesome mofo that she is, will help me leapfrog through the week until I donʻt have to leapfrog anymore.
• Reading and writing are my pillars. Even writing this blog right now grounds me. Writing is thinking. Reading is imagining. Both activities can be transformative and transcendent.
• I will make it to the end of the day. In one piece. Smiling.

Iʻm not saying Iʻll do it with grace and style. Brah, sometimes itʻs fucking ugly. Thereʻs a quote from Dean Koontzʻs, Odd Thomas, that I loved since I first read it years ago: "Life is not about how fast you run or even with what degree of grace. Itʻs about perseverance, about staying on your feet and slogging forward no matter what."

 

But.

Every day is not a struggle. I going say that again. Every day is NOT a struggle. Most of my days are good ones. Laughing is easy. I like to laugh. Iʻll whack your butt, fart in your face, belch in the middle of a conversation, say something entirely inappropriate (are we not doing phrasing anymore?), talk to you like a baby, have a dance party in the middle of the parking lot with the rope I use to tie up my bike (or pretend to use as a belt).

 

It was Shani who reminded me that depression doesnʻt have to be the lowest of the lows. Depression can sit just below normal.

Thatʻs where Iʻm at.

But.

Neither have I always been this comfortable with who I am, inside and out. Maybe ever. Despite being mentally and emotionally all over the place, I am physically fit. My body is strong and healthy. Iʻm weird and playful and curious. Iʻm getting better at making space for myself, Iʻm more confident, Iʻm more open to the world.

And perhaps thatʻs also why I struggle. This is new to me, this openness and acceptance. Iʻm often vulnerable and uncomfortable. I want to hide my flaws, I want to not give a flying fuck, I want to pretend Iʻm okay when Iʻm not. I want to stay small, stay silent, and smile smile smile. But lying-- and those would be lies-- doesnʻt suit anymore. Pretending is ill-fitting.

Look, I know Iʻm kind of a mess. After Iʻd been beating myself up for being complicated, Mahana looked it up. She first asked me to define "complicated," and my answer, of course, was all negative. Her Google search (and I looked for myself later) yielded this: "consisting of many interconnecting parts or elements; intricate." I laughed. "That sounds desirable. Artistic, even," I said.

So, Iʻm complicated. I consist of many interconnected parts. I am intricate. I am a work of art. Unique and ordinary at the same time. Because yes, I have anxiety and depression-- I sit just below whatever the fuck normal is-- and that can be enough to convince me that Iʻm not worth the effort of knowing. And though I am flawed, my mental health is not a flaw, and neither is my weirdness, intelligence, or sense of humor. Iʻm learning that embracing all of those parts makes me stronger, that trusting myself begins with being kinder to myself, and both lessons make it easier to weather the shitty moments when Iʻm inexorably drawn to that abyss of tears.