Racing thoughts, anxiety, what ifs and worries… We’ve all been there. Some of us are there on a daily basis. As much as I wanted this blog to be a safe refuge, the first place I would begin to actually begin, there is so much anxiety in sitting down and doing the work that I’ll do anything but that.
I’ll wash dishes, eat chocolate,freak out about laundry (hate.laundry), call my mom, worry about my finances, eat more chocolate, read blogs, nap. Anything to avoid being in that centered yet uncomfortable place where we meet ourselves. The place where ideas are organized, fleshed out and come into this world.
Weirdly enough, my resistance this week seemed to come from a place of being overwhelmed. I’ve started a blog! I’m so excited!! I HAVE SO MUCH TO WRITE ABOUT! The the thoughts about thoughts start: How can I write all of that? I’m probably not good enough to write one of them, let alone all 5. What if my writing sucks? What if my (nonexistent) readers are pissed I posted too much?
And honestly, some of these thoughts are valid. I really do have a ton of ideas since each hour provides ample moments to turn over in my head. Overall, though, it’s a bunch of crap that I feed to myself thinking that I’m being a good person by not creating. That I am better than other people because I can get all of my ToDos done and never write a single sentence and somehow look happy to the outside world. Or I’m proud because I resisted the selfish, lazy urge to create and ran an errand or cleaned a toilet – y’know, something more “productive”.
Just now I had opened my laptop to post and I found myself organizing bookmarks (I kid you not). I could feel the struggle in myself – primal urge to write versus panic that I wasn’t doing what I’m “supposed to be” doing. How awful is that? It’s a daily battle. I was going to reference Steven Pressfield’s “The War of Art” and how this all ties in, but serendipitously he posted about this exact issue himself (I swear I saw this in real-time, mid-post. Not lying).
The universe is funny like that.