The Lies We Tell Ourselves
The Lies We Tell Ourselves
And the cycle of self-talk that makes or breaks our creativity
Hi friends.
For years now, I’ve been lying to myself. Telling myself that my work will never amount to anything. That I won’t make a difference. That nobody cares what I have to say. That my words will only get lost in the vortex of the internet and the media. Listening to these sneaky lies is a surefire way to send myself spiraling into a ~dark place~ where it’s lonely, cold, and sad. I know I know I know I know these things aren’t true. Sometimes I can’t help it though. It’s like a little self-doubt demon with a megaphone crawls into my ear to amplify all my insecurities, and I don’t have the strength to shut him out any longer. So for a little while, I indulge in it. Do you do this too?
The entire month of March, that sticky and uncomfortable stretch between winter and spring, was one of those times for me. Usually, the doom and gloom accompanies other struggles in my life: when I’m tired, experiencing conflict in a relationship or dealing with rejection, feeling hormonal, or haven’t seen the sun in weeks. The despair fades as those struggles resolve. This time, the discomfort just wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t shake the funk despite trying all my usual tricks. Immersing myself into books and storytelling, picking up a new skill, moving my body, creating without rules, visiting somewhere that brings me joy. Nothing worked. And so, the energy I expended just to try to lift myself up only left me feeling more empty. Completely drained of any morsel of thought, insight, or creativity, which have become my lifelines. Self-loathing moved into the empty space.
I dread empty space for this reason. On paper, space is what I should crave. I like the thought of free time without expectations. Time to create, experiment, play, abandon plans, rest, say no. But in reality, I’m terrible at sitting still. When I’m not constantly busy with work or social plans or hobbies, the time in between gives my imagination permission to wander into the shadowy corners of my mind. I don’t like when this happens. It’s uncomfortable. The shadows scare me. Instead of confronting the demons in the corners, I resist. I come up with new distractions to avert my attention. The ritual of writing became the distraction in March, although it was entirely unfulfilling. It felt painful, but I kept writing, trying to unravel these toxic streams of thought to reveal their origins. None of my words made very much sense. But all of the messiness was completely and brutally honest. That’s the point anyway: to bring myself closer toward honesty and clarity in who I am, right? Regardless of how messy and crooked and confusing things get?
It’s so easy to forget about the funk when things are going good, and it’s so easy to forget about the good when things are in a funk. One of the things I’ve learned through this is that routine is essential, but it can also be the enemy. I need the repetitive motions of a predictable schedule, from waking up all the way until going to sleep, but at some point the comfort turned into doldrums. Walking the dog, eating the same meals, writing for most of the day, watching my favorite TV show, reading before bed—it all started to feel like chores. The solace of ritual wore off. The crisp morning air on my walk started to annoy me and cooking my favorite comfort food bored me. Now that I think of it, I think this is called depression.
I’m feeling better now, but I honestly can’t tell you when things started looking up. Was it after we escaped to the desert, where the land and sky are limitless? Did that give me the perception of space I needed? Or was it when the chill wore off, the flowers poked out their heads, and shorts were finally acceptable for the first time since last year? Will I know how to get myself unstuck the next time? Does it even matter? My dad always said that the only way through is through, and I guess I made it through. I can’t say that I can clearly hear my loving inner voice again. The one that coos I’m enough. That I don’t need to accomplish anything to be loved. That just by creating and sharing, I’m spreading love. I can’t hear those gentle whispers yet. But the stream of negative self talk is silent. There’s quiet instead. I’m finding daily hope in sewing again, pitching stories again, connecting with friends again. Distractions, but also reasons to wake up in the morning. And so, the cycle repeats itself again.
With love,
Amelia
Monthly Favorites
Reading: I just finished The Marrow Thieves, a YA adventure novel by Cherie Dimaline. Now I’m reading The Body Keeps the Score about healing trauma.
Writing: This piece about a fearless female entrepreneur in Kansas City, where to see wildflowers in Arizona, a complete starter kit for gardening, and a bunch of other fun stories that haven’t published yet
Making: These floaty shorts and this tie tank, both out of linen
Watching: The Essentials Club on YouTube
Learning: How to structure a longform feature
Subscribing: The Cereal Aisle by Leandra Medine Cohen
Wearing: The chore coat I sewed up in a flowered lilac canvas
Cooking: This sticky coconut chicken and rice is a new go-to meal
