Since I last posted, I can point to only a handful of days I have not written at least one sentence. I would journal on the events of my day, on worries and concerns I’d troubled with, but all my sentences were stilted, chaotic. I’ve begun numerous short stories, each floundering after page one. I’ve penned poems but all so terrible that the poems themselves crinkled in shame at their own words. Often I wanted, really, to come back to this blog, but with my newfound inability to focus on any paper I’ve put pen to, I decided not to waste other people's time. I’m not quite sure why I’ve had such struggles, but I think primarily it all boils down to my mental health.
A brief snapshot of what that means. Earlier this year, I returned to therapy. I began in February and have gone almost every week since. My new therapist has a ton of experience working with those monsters called eating disorders, and with her help I've attained a few breakthroughs, but there have also been some setbacks. It's a constant swing of highs and lows that leave me with the inescapable feeling that I’m the ever fraying rope in a game of tug-o-war between my eating disorder and the whole rest of the world. I also continue to struggle with the place I currently call home. Mountains and the wild west aside, Utah continues to be a very difficult place for me to warm up to. I’ll skip the hard details for now, and simply boil my issues down to culture and air quality. I have this year let the stresses of my job affect me far more than should be allowed. And lastly, I went home in June, and while the trip was wonderful to extremes, leaving caused the same type of destruction Alaska visits have.
All this combined, led me to spend the majority of summer and early fall in a semi-depressed haze. There were days I had a hard time being happy with any part of my life, and had next to zero desire to go out and explore. Really, I had little desire to do anything but read, which I did - a lot. I had a hard time imagining how I was going to pull myself out this incredibly unwelcome slump. But then something beautiful happened, I went to Maine.
My first trip to Maine since driving away two years ago, was more than fun adventures with friends and frequent visits to my favorite haunting grounds. It was a reminder of the person I could be outside of Alaska. By that I mean the feeling that I'm never 100% complete unless I am physically in Alaska. In the past two years I've twisted that mindset to mean 'happy' can only exist with 'whole' and 'incomplete' would always mingle with 'sad'. But in Maine I realized that was a lie, one that slid away revealing underneath the me who could be not quite whole and also happy, full of hope, and ever adventurous too.
Flying away from Maine I sensed renewed health and dreams, and a lot more confidence in my ability to actually live the life I hope for. I landed in Utah full of many plans and a list of goals. One of those goals is a return to writing and to actually finish the stories, poems, and blogs I set out to create, so, I am.
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