So I was at my Thursday night dinner party, chatting with a beloved friend about how she’d just utterly broken one of her submissive playthings.
And I realize, in this moment, that those may be the least surprising words I’ve ever put to paper. Anyway, my head filled with visions of medieval torment and I had to know: what terrible, unspeakably cruel and sadistic torture had she employed?
“I forced her to look at herself in the mirror,” she said, “and say nice things about herself.”
Horrifying. I mean, I knew she was a diabolical genius, but I never knew she’d go that far.
This piece started out as an apology. I’ll cut to the chase: the first three chapters of the new Patreon serial, which were supposed to come out tomorrow, aren’t ready yet. I need more time and I’m shooting for Friday, possibly next Tuesday if I really get stuck in the weeds. But this is not an apology.
~ ~ ~
I’ve written before about how my brain spiraled out of control during the early months of the pandemic, sending me into a burnout spiral, and how antidepressants pretty much saved my life. Mental health is important to me; I want it to be important to you, too, which is why I’m open about this stuff. I strongly support a “hey, taking care of your brain is good, actually” worldview.
When I moved earlier this year, to a more supportive home and community than I’ve ever had before, my friends pointed out what was obvious to everyone but me: the medication was good, but not enough. I needed to put in some serious work. In other words, therapy.
I did some shopping around, found a therapist who I really resonated with (very important), and we got down to business. First and foremost, dismantling my old and no-longer-needed survival mechanisms one by one. Confronted with my own unvarnished, naked reality, I immediately turned upon myself with predictable self-loathing, a serpent determined to devour itself because it didn’t deserve to live.
“Can we reframe that?” my therapist said. She is very gentle, sometimes. “You’re a survivor of trauma. You developed your coping mechanisms in order to stay alive. And back then, at the time, you needed them. They helped you. Now you’re entering a new phase of your life, and you don’t need those mechanisms anymore: they’ve gone from helping you to actively hurting you, so it’s time to let go.”
To let go, in a spirit of gratitude. I sat down after that session and wrote a thank-you letter to my old life and my old ways. Of course, nothing is that easy: therapy is hard work, if you’re doing it right, and after months of weekly sessions I’m really seeing just how much is yet to be done. But I’m also seeing progress, so that’s all right.
~ ~ ~
People have jokingly (?) suggested I’m a writing machine, some sort of rogue AI tuned for prolific output. The reality is far less interesting: writing is my job and I treat it that way, which means showing up for work and putting in the hours, simple as that. And I love doing it, so it’s not like I’m working in a coal mine.
Still, I’ve taken some pride in my reputation. Before my spiral, before the pandemic, I had never missed a single deadline in my entire professional career. Not one. If I said “the manuscript will be done by (insert date here),” I had it finished two weeks ahead of schedule. Often that meant committing to ridiculous, self-destructive hours. I spent a three-year span working every single day, rain or shine. And as I tumbled into that work-obsessive cycle, it became a badge of perverse pride. Of course I worked on weekends and holidays and missed social events and missed out on my own life. I’m dedicated. I’m tough. I can take it. I couldn’t see it at the time, but I was building a crutch and a prison for myself — and if I spent every waking hour working, that meant I didn’t have to spend time with myself, in my own head.
~ ~ ~
“Can you be kind to yourself?”
That was one of the first things my therapist asked me. Big ask. Scary-big. I can go twelve rounds beating myself up, no problem, but kindness was a radical and frightening concept. We started with something simple and terrible: setting an alarm. It goes off every day at five o’clock, and tells me that I’m done working. Period. You know those bits in reality competition shows when the clock runs out and everybody has to put their tools down/step away from their cooking stations/etc? It’s just like that. The next challenge was taking weekends off, and I’m pretty sure that was one of the tasks Hercules had to tackle back in the day.
But then I discovered something amazing. When I took time to breathe, time for myself, time to live, my actual productivity didn’t change all that much. I’ve been spending fewer hours at the keyboard but I’m more focused, more driven when I do. And while I’m the worst judge, I think some of my recent writing might be…better?
And that’s everything to me. Writing is my career, sure, but it’s also my passion; if it wasn’t, I could have stuck with my old corporate job (and made more money.) I always want to give you my very best work, and I always want to be improving as an artist.
Which brings us back around to the new serial. Me 1.0 would have piled coal into the furnace, canceled sleep and sanity, and done whatever it took to have the chapters ready for tomorrow morning’s launch. And they would have been fine. Perfectly readable, maybe even good. But I don’t do that anymore. The chapters need more work, and I’m going to keep hammering at them until they’re in proper shape. The end result — if I do my job right — will be worth it.
So in conclusion, therapy is pretty amazing. I know a lot of my readers are struggling right now, seeing as 2021 hasn’t been the greatest of years, and if you feel like you might need it yourself (or just benefit a little bit from giving it a try), please don’t wait as long as I did.
Oh, and one question: can you be kind to yourself today?
