It Feels Like Too Much

Sometimes the world just feels like too much to handle. Today is one of those days. Deconstruction, financial stress, shifting relationships, inner turmoil, lack of transportation, emotional upheaval, and past trauma scream day and night, each vying for attention and draining energy like vampires sucking blood from corpses.

It’s not supposed to be this way.

I’m feeling rather nostalgic this morning thanks to memories of the #EpicBookTourTPD. In fact, I began drafting a post about the photos and tweets that showed up on my Timehop today in an effort to remember the bright spots while crawling through the hard spaces. But when I began typing, this came out instead. I could write it all out and then delete, but I’m trying to be brave, real. Last year, I met with a literary agent for feedback on my book proposal and she said something to me that hasn’t left: “If you’re really brave, show me. Tell me exactly what you were thinking and feeling when you said you didn’t want to wake up the next day.”

So, here I am. Because I know for a fact that I’m not the only person who feels this way. Yet, when you’re in a space like this, you feel very, very alone. Maybe if I put my fingertips to the keyboard, my words will find their way to you and make you feel less alone.

Maybe it’s like a two way mirror. I can’t see anything but my own reflection, but you’re there, watching. My words on your computer or smartphone screen appearing before you as if I held a page up to the glass. 

That nostalgia is mixed with a good measure of anxiety, depression, and fear about the future thrown in. Putting one foot in front of the other is basically all I know to do right now in the present.

It’s been a rough few months, and I’ve found myself lower than I’ve been in quite some time. I feel like I’m surrounded by insurmountable cliffs. Slippery, unforgiving, no place to hold or step.

The dark overwhelms. When a momentary prick of light cuts through the black, I burst into action with every bit of energy I can muster. It might last a few minutes, a few hours, a few days, a few weeks. But when it fades, it fades fast.

I’m trying to get my crap together so the rug doesn’t get pulled out from under me. But it’s all so overwhelming. I need my tribe to help me find a place to put my foot, a place to grab hold.

Last night, I created a crowdfunding campaign to help boost me up the cliff of buying a car. It’s been an idea for a few weeks, but I’ve resisted because it feels weak and desperate. (There you go, brave and real.)

Here’s the description I wrote:

After three years of being without a vehicle, I am reaching out to my friends, family, and community for support in securing reliable transportation.

When I moved to Texas three years ago, I left almost everything behind, including my car. (It never would have made the trip anyway.) And I regret having made the move without a car.

I will admit that I could have planned this move better, practically speaking. But those who have filled my journey these last few years know that the opportunity unfolded in ways I never imagined.

Truthfully, Texas has probably saved my life because it gave me a refuge when my life was falling apart. But it hasn’t been an easy road by any means.

I’m in a position now where I need access to my own car. Being a self-employed freelancer is difficult and at times unstable. For my mental and emotional health, it’s becoming more evident that I need a backup plan. I love my current job, but am also aware that circumstances shift and change. I need a contingency plan.

Finding a steadier job would require reliable transportation, so this is the first step toward the next level of independence.

Making this ask is not not easy for me, but it is something that has been nibbling at my brain for weeks. All of this seems insurmountable and out of reach. My anxiety levels are sky high. Checking the car off my get-your-crap-together list would be huge.

People are often willing to help, but may not have the opportunity to do so. If you are so inclined to help, I am ever grateful.

Back in the day, when people like  Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott, and Ralph Waldo Emerson were scratching out the words that would become American literary classics, they were often supported by patrons of the arts. People who believed in their craft, in their work, in their messages.

While I don’t consider myself as talented as any of those writers, I do know I have a gift in writing and connecting with people through my words. Sitting behind a keyboard, pounding out words that you hope will impact someone else’s life is often lonely and isolating. But we writers keep doing it not only because it heals our own souls, but also because we believe it will help heal others.

So, if my writing, my story, my journey has touched or impacted you in some way, would you consider making a donation to help propel me up the cliff I’m facing? To the next phase of whatever this journey has in store?

(You’ll be able to call yourself a patron of the Arts, if you need a perk other than helping a sister out. And if when I publish a book, I’ll include you in the acknowledgements.)


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