Fuels: Materials that store potential energy in forms that can be practicably released and used as heat energy.
At a recent literary event, I stood in a circle of writers who were talking about insomnia, a common issue for artistically driven people. I mentioned that I donโt struggle very much with insomnia, surprisingly, because Iโve struggled with anxiety since childhood, and insomnia and anxiety are often related. I felt myself searching for words to explain my anxiety, as has always been my tendency. I suppose itโs a defense mechanism or measure of justification, as if I have to prove that, although anxiety filters in and out of my life, I can manage it and have risen above it. The truth is, there have been phases of time where Iโve been struck so heavily by anxiety that I was swallowed by it.
Standing in the circle of writer friends, I offered: โIt isnโt because of something traumatic. I had a pretty great childhood. Iโve just always had anxiety. Itโs like I was born with it.โ
Itโs true that after years of trying to figure out the why of my anxiety, Iโve accepted it as this: anxiety came with me into the world. I am simply wired this way.
โDo you know any writers who donโt have anxiety?โ one woman asked.
The group of us shook our heads. I smiled, feeling a strong sense of belonging.
โTrue,โ I said. โAnxiety is an energy.โ
They nodded.
This was one of many instances where Iโve stood with a group of writers and felt a deep sense of connection. After years of feeling isolated with my anxious brain, in the past few years Iโve found people who share this condition, or energy, as I like to call it. Most people have anxiety when a circumstance warrants it (a sick family member, financial distress, a burdensome move), but what about the kind of anxiety that is free floating, that seems not to have a specific, definable reason?
Anxiety is a soundtrack some of us wake up to in the morning, and though it is fairly consistent background music, it varies in pitch and volume.
It isnโt strange that many writers exhibit anxiety. After all, how many non-anxious individuals become obsessed with complexities of character and nuances of plot to the point of writing hundreds of pages and then discarding huge chunks of them because they simply arenโt working? I am often caught in a maelstrom of thoughts and ideas that I must transfer to paper as a way to make sense of them. Or I become fixated on articulating a question or one of the many perplexing facets of society and the page is a blank and silent slate on which to do it.
Writing is something tangible to allay anxiety. But writing can also be an anxiety provoker. I often get so attached to words and descriptions that I canโt put a sentence to rest. Iโll obsess over the clarity of my words until they are manipulated to the point of extreme dissection. But whether itโs a producer of anxiety or an outlet, writing is necessary.
Iโve always been compelled to write. It feels like the needs to create and express have been attached to me since I was very small. As a kid, I couldnโt get my hands on enough books.
I read on car trips, passing the time with my face pressed in words.
โBritt, youโre missing the beautiful mountains out the window,โ my mom would say.
โBritt, arenโt you getting dizzy back there?โ my dad would say.
โAre you still reading?โ my brother would ask.
My fourth grade teacher told my parents that she often caught me with a book tucked inside my desk cubby during Math. She needed me to pay attention in Math. But I wasnโt drawn to numbers and symbols. I was drawn to words and language. I knew that there wasnโt one right answer to most problems. I was drawn to possibilities. I wanted stories.
Reading transported me to storytelling, where I sat for hours at a time, creating narratives aloud. I only needed a book in hand, to feel the shape and texture of the pages and binding. I wouldnโt actually read the text, I simply liked the feel of thick, slightly worn paperbacks from my parentsโ shelf. Iโd get caught in the flow of storytelling and would stay in my room for hours doing this. My mom bought me a tape recorder. There were characters I came to love and certain stories I returned to over time. This practice continued into high school. Iโve always carried a lot of energy inside me and a desire to exercise my imagination, but I also realize that, since childhood, stories have been a place for me to sink into as a way to soak up my anxious energy.
I used to see my anxiety as a weakness, as something that was wrong with me. But Iโve learned that itโs not a flaw in character, nor a weakness to combat. Although anxiety can be tiresome, it is also a gift that fuels my creative work; one that takes me to places I wouldnโt otherwise be able to go. Author Joan Didion says you have to pick the places you donโt walk away from. Sometimes it is not a choice. Anxiety requires me to stay and examine, prod and knead all possibility from the yolk. Often this examination brings me to the page. Anxiety jumpstarts new projects in order to place my restless energy somewhere.
When I think of living without the challenge of anxiety, it is appealing, but if this force were to be completely wiped out, I would be missing something that is valuable and necessary for my life as a creative person. I know anxiety well enough to know it will continue to knock on my door from time to time, arriving for a dinner itโs not invited to. But instead of constantly closing the door on this persistent guest, Iโve decided to invite him in on occasion. I no longer perceive anxiety as a solely tortuous or entirely negative entity. Instead, I honor the upsides of anxiety and how it fuels my creative energy.
