Over the years, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in my thinking. No matter what I’m doing, unless I’m somehow being productive and working on an article, my book, or sending out a pitch, it’s not good enough. Given I enjoy doing a whole lot of nothing when I’m not working, and by this I mean just sort of staring at the wall thinking or taking a nap or, when I was smoking, puffing cigarettes while downing coffee and just staring at the trees from my porch, I routinely beat myself up.
“Put down the bat!” my sponsor used to say constantly before I left AA.
It’s not easy to do. When you’ve concluded that if you’re not writing or pitching you should be attending some literary event or important lecture at the LA Central Library, going to a dance class, taking an art class, going to a gallery or museum, being social, or, most importantly, reading a high-quality book by an award-winning literary author, you’ll always feel like a failure.
Unfortunately, I’ve lately noticed an even more troubling trend.
When I do pick up a book, if it’s a good one, all I want to do is read it. I become consumed and obsessed, and as I lay around reading and reading, growing sedentary for a day or a few days or a week, depending on the book’s length, I feel guilty because I’m not moving enough. “You’re such a slob,” I’ll think. “You need to get out an exercise.”
And when I become diligent about exercising, spending my free time in dance classes or, when I used to have a YMCA membership, at the gym, I’d feel guilty for not reading or doing something more intellectual with my time. “All you do is work and go to the gym,” I’d think. “How can you be a writer if you’re not reading?”
And if all I do is go out with my friends or go to literary or other cultural events, I think “You’re not working on your book. How can you be a writer if you’re not writing?” And if all I’m doing is working on my book to the point of obsession, blocking out everything else in my life, including opening the mail and addressing financial obligations, not cleaning up, and blowing off friends and family, I think “You’re so irresponsible and selfish. Look at your room! It’s a dump. What is wrong with you? Make time for your friends and family, you jerk!”
I’m never ever good enough for myself.
Now that I’ve become aware of this pattern, literally within the last two months, I have to do something about it. Either that, or live in this constant state of self-flagellation. Because I often grow brain-dead due to bipolar depression, which contrasts those huge surges of creative and productive energy that overtake me if I’m tipping toward hypomania, the problem only balloons. Often, I feel as though I can’t do anything, including write or pitch, read, meet up with friends, follow-through on plans to hit a reading or museum, or even clean.
So depression typically upsets me not just because I feel so shitty, but because I can’t get a damn thing done. Even answering emails or calling people back proves an agonizing chore. It’s said often by practitioners in behavioral health that action is a main anecdote to depression, but when you’re brain and body have slowed so bad you feel incapable of taking the action, well, the problem only snowballs. But I’m happy to report that meditation is saving my ass, or at least saving some of my sanity.
I recently learned that meditating on compassion and loving kindness, toward others and toward ourselves, produces powerful endorphins in the brain. Doing so, I’ve discovered a powerful truth—the more judgmental I am toward others, the more judgmental I am toward myself, and vice versa. Sitting still and focusing on spreading this compassion and love truly helps me feel calm and at peace and whole again, and totally okay no matter how unproductive I’ve been.
Unfortunately for me, I can’t just do it once a day. It wears off fast—I’ll mediate for five or ten or even twenty minutes in the morning, and by noon the effect is gone. So then I have to do it again, and then again at two, and then again at four and then at six, eight, until I go to bed. But hey, it’s free, and at least I can do it anywhere. And in the past, I’ve had a really hard time meditating. But for some reason, when deliberately focusing on something like compassion, I’m able to get into a really genuine Zen zone.
Still, the negative thoughts are right there beneath the surface, begging to unleash on my psyche.
One of the biggest challenges is fighting my belief that if I’m not a bestselling novelist by 40, I’m a total failure. Prior to traveling to Europe and Armenia this year, I had decided if I hadn’t gone abroad by 40 I would also be a total failure. Now that that’s done and over with, I’m focusing on the book.
This constant mentality of “I’m never good enough” is, of course, completely self-defeating and does nothing to encourage more productivity and success. Invariably, after a week or two of zero brain activity and low productivity, the fire comes back, my mind wakes up, and I get to work. Inevitably, after avoiding reading or the dance classes or my friends, I get back to engaging these activities.
So my current challenge is to accept these moments of lethargy, maybe even embrace them, and, when necessary, apply some hormone cream (during PMS, it’s like my brain shuts down entirely) or talk to my doctor about a med shift. Often, just adding a bit more of an antidepressant will increase my energy just enough to engage in activities that will continue to boost a sense of well-being, especially things like exercise and socializing, both proven to stimulate dopamine and serotonin.
But even if I’m at a baseline mood and can actually do things, there’s still that “Oh, you should be doing this, not that” thought process. Now I’m angry at it. I don’t know where it comes from, maybe our culture, or maybe my upbringing—I was taught to go to college and make something of myself at like three-years-old. Or it could just be my incredible ability to compare and despair. I look at other writers who have published five novels at 37, other writers who are regular contributors at the New Yorker and The Atlantic, other writers who have 50 thousand Twitter followers, and conclude that I’m a big bad failure.
At the root of this, though, is the belief that if you’re just an anonymous person, a person who goes to a job and comes home and watches TV, that you’re not as significant as some star writer or artist or politician or intellectual or activist. This is pure bullshit, and acknowledging the bullshit helps me soften up on those around me and subsequently soften up on myself. It’s simply not true that you have to succeed in ground-breaking contexts to be worthy of taking a breath on this planet. I’m now convinced that until I obliterate this faulty belief system, I won’t find any relief.
So that’s my challenge today, and that’s my intention. The more I remember this, the more I meditate, the more I focus on becoming a writer among writers instead of the best or most followed writer in the world, the more peace and freedom comes over me. So of all activities, it seems the most important is continuing this meditation practice. Thankfully, I can do it even when brain-dead and staring at the wall.
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