Being creative has gotten me through a lot of tough and trying
situations in life. When I have trouble finishing a task, my imagination
makes me resourceful. When I'm bored, it makes me insightful. When I'm
listening to someone speak, it makes me inquisitive.
When I have expectations and they aren't met, it makes me absolutely crazy.
I'm
blessed with many lovely traits (clearly I'm not feeling very humble
right now; it must be a productive of my lethargy). Chief among them is
my mind. I may not be terrifically smart (there's that self-critical
side kicking in) and spout off knowledge about world events or political
news at a moment's notice. But I use my brain for something that is
complex in itself.
I quite fancy myself an artist. And
even though most of my work is through the written word, I consider
everything I compose inherently creative because it comes organically
from the internal monologues (and sometimes dialogues) going through my
head.
As a kid I had a lot of weird traits that
somehow, surprisingly enough, never turned me into a serial murderer or
socially-awkward loner. You know those memories that we have that make
sense in theory, but when we apply them to real life we can't imagine
how we ever got through life acting so strangely?
I have a lot of those.
In
my head I used to come up with chants and rituals. When I was bored,
I'd recite things in my head to keep me preoccupied. I'd play games by
myself, sometimes literally and sometimes just by making up stories in
my head.
Making up stories in my head. It's the only skill
that keeps me living. Without it I'd never have gone to college, I'd
never have studied journalism, I'd never have started this blog. And
what would my life be without this blog (and those other things)?
But creating narratives in your head doesn't always prove a good
use of time. It can also be the food that keeps your paranoia alive.
I've learned this the hard way over the years.
By
the time I was 11, I only had one parent. Anyone who's gone through this
knows how it feels to lose something. And, unless circumstances were
incredibly unfair, anyone who's gone through this knows how it feels to
have one remaining factor to ease the pain of loss.
My innocence was lost. My dad remained.
And, somewhat unluckily, my imagination remained too.
Before
my mom was gone, I rarely contemplated on death. I'd never had a close
relative pass away, never even dealt with anyone in my immediate family
entering the hospital. Why should I worry if I have no precedent for it?
Once you've lost a parent though, it can be almost emotionally
imperative to latch onto the other parent. The comfort of a
still-remaining loving adult figure is a comfort when you're faced
head-on with the issue of mortality.
Not long after,
though, many of us (I, specifically) start to notice changes in how we
perceive daily life. Not only are we holding on even more tightly to the
family we still have, but we're finding ourselves dwelling much too
heavily on unlikelihood that we might lose what we now desperately want
to keep around.
I haven't gone a single day of college
without calling my dad. Some people think this is weird. In fat, I'm
sure many people do. Who has the time or even the interest in talking
with their parent every day?
If I must bring some
perspective into the equation, consider how you would feel if you went a
week without calling and then phoned up to find out you'd missed your
final opportunity to talk with a parent.
It's morbid, I
know. But it's how I think sometimes. Because once you've been faced
with the death of a loved one, you can't help but think about the
eventual demise of the rest. And of course the toll on yourself that the
inevitable loss will hold.
Then you become your own worst
enemy. By calling up relatives every day, you become dependent on that
contact. In doing so, you get closer to them and your expectations for
daily interaction can be crippling if they're not met.
I've
been known to call my dad multiple times if he doesn't pick up. Today,
when I was driving home from work, I called him as per our routine
conversation as I exit work and head out on the unreliable southern
California freeways. When his cell phone went straight to voicemail and
he didn't pick up our house phone, I started freaking out. I turned off
the music in the car and drove with eyes glazed over as my mind
wandered.
I was ruminating on anything that could possibly
go wrong. He could've been in a car crash. But wouldn't someone have
used his phone to call my sister or me? Maybe he had a sudden health
issue. But he could call from the doctor's if he needed to. Any theory
could be presented and debunked, but the persistence of negativity is
what really destroyed me.
The experience reminded me of
the paralyzing fear I felt in the couple of years following my mom's
stroke when I would eagerly await my dad's return home from work in the
evenings and he would fail to notify me that he'd be arriving back 30
minutes late or so.
It makes me feel like a parent. My overactive mind cooks up every
possible blunder in the book. It then magnifies them and removes all
logic from the equation. Then it turns me into a psychological cripple.
I like to think that I have no emotional issues following certain
traumatic life experiences I've had, mostly because I've never felt
that my personality changed during any of the sad transition time of my
preteenhood. But when I really think about it, though nothing changed on
the surface, a lot changed on the inside.
As my sensitivity and emotions developed, so did my creativity.
While these traits seem like generally positive characteristics, in the
wrong situation they can make for the worst life - one of fear.
Because I rejoice in my own imagination - that which gives me the
ability to write or even sing, draw, paint, knit and sew to some extent
- I can't quite complain over what I have. But what comes with the
happiness of creativity are the demons of a too-introspective mind. I
may not have wound up as a hermit in the mountains or a social pariah,
but my fate isn't so great either.
There really is good and bad to everything.
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