Writing feels like remembering the tea I forgot I have in my cabinet. When I'm feeling lowly–when I'm already in my soft pajama pants and tip toeing into the kitchen for something mild and comforting, pushing every other guilty pleasure to the sides of the cupboard to reveal something that should very much be a pillar in my nightly ritual...
Getting diagnosed with OCD and ADHD is the worst thing to happen to me, but finally understanding the things I struggle with, and learning how to manage them.....yeah. Silver lining. Unexpected. Silver. Lining.
I've always held back on learning the guitar. On writing shitty scripts. On doing anything half-assed or imperfect. We're often taught that the things we create and devote time and effort to, must be done with all the intention in the world, carefully thought-out and tediously revised. For me, that's always meant simply not trying at all. If perfection is impossible to achieve, what's the point?, I'd think to myself.
But it's black and white thinking. A capitalistic, western view. A proper way to produce, a means of ensuring 'quality' at the expense of...humanity? Is that the word?
We aren't robots. We'll never be perfect. At some point, chasing my dreams became more about running from failure. That's not a way to live; that's not the way I'd like to live.
Trying to be perfect all of these years has effectively stunted my personal growth. The truth is – being bad at the guitar is better than not learning at all. Writing a shitty script and learning how to rewrite it is better than not writing at all. Half-assing anything, in my case (YMMV), has always been the better option. Doing things, scared even, has been the better option. Embarrassing myself making mistakes, and being earnest about the goof-ups, has always always always been the better option. That's learning.
Over the last few months, I've picked up my Squier and learned 3, going on 4 songs. I've picked up Barre again (I have a class tomorrow!) and even when it was difficult and I had to drop my weights, I kept at it without them. I dug the acrylic paints out of the closet, found a tackle box at Goodwill, and created a crafts box. I've made magnets, collages, painted coasters, customized furniture, and all the like.
I've rummaged thru the cabinets to repurpose old jars, painting the lids and adding them to my desk to hold my pens and markers. They're scrappy and imperfect – the paint will likely chip or fade and I'll love them anyways, because I made them.
It's a liberating feeling, allowing myself to just be, without the pressure of perfection. I still have so much to work on, but it's so incredible rare for me to give myself a pat on my back, that I thought I really should. Because I've been through so much, and I'm still trying. And that's all that matters.
When I was in college and had no friends, I still took my ass to cafes, spent $9 a month on my website, and wrote everyday after classes. Even when I was struggling with eating, and anxiety, I went to learn piano and keep singing, and forced myself to take acting. I enrolled in sketch comedy too, and let myself write bad jokes.
During the pandemic, I got help for the eating disorder, on top of online classes, on top of my internships. I taught myself Adobe, I learned WordPress, I Googled "most used softwares" and tinkered with them for hours, allowing myself to be frustrated over what buttons to click before they slowly but surely became muscle memory.
Once I moved to LA and was hospitalized, I thought long and hard about how I was treating myself. I pushed for better, finally got a job at a studio, finished the script I'd been meaning to for well over a year, went stone cold sober for 6+ months, and moved apartments.
After the anxiety of the LA fires, being sick, and being alone, I went back to therapy. I fought thru the depression, the anxiety, the insomnia, and the intense fear that comes with ERP (exposure response prevention). Every single day since, I have practiced radical acceptance and I fail a LOT at it. A lot. Yet, my symptoms are down 88%. Eighty. Eight. Percent. And during this time, I challenged myself to do what has always helped me when I was struggling: create. even if it's bad. or laughable. who cares? If it helps, if it's healing, that's all that matters.
Furthermore (and to close out this short little thing): I've written about Kintsugi briefly before, and have been reminded of how beautiful the art form is, especially in my own little healing journey. I got something wrong though! I focused too much on the final product: the repaired pottery, the golden scars, the beauty in the imperfection. All of it matters, but I'd forgotten about all that goes INTO it. The hours spent sanding down the edges, meticulously piecing together what can't ever be truly broken, the time and labor, the ability to see the worth in something that would otherwise be thrown away. All of that is the magic of kintsugi.
Here I was, so focused on being broken, then on being fixed, that I forgot that everything in-between is what matters. The fuck-ups, the wins, the tears, the laughs, the joy, the sorrow, the slow days, the quick mornings...I have been so unaware of how much love I've poured into myself over the last few months. I'm really glad I took the leap, and although healing has been ridiculously messy, I have never been happier to be a mess.
Sincerely,
Elena
Elena