Why have I been so hesitant to speak my mind lately? It doesn’t usually trouble me!
Recently my blog posts haven’t made it any further than my drafts folder. Having taken up a substantial chunk of my ‘free time’ to write (a commodity which has felt rather scarce of late), these posts languish in linguistic limbo, imploring me to press the ‘Publish’ button each time I sit down at my computer. Why have I been so hesitant to speak my mind lately? It doesn’t usually trouble me!
In honesty, I apportion a large piece of the blame to the fact that I haven’t felt very much like myself lately. I am generally, outwardly upbeat. I do a lot of smiling in my ‘day job’. I am unapologetically self-deprecating in my humour and I love making other people happy – genuinely. My charitable endeavours and use of my platform to amplify the voices of worthy causes are not entirely altruistic acts, because nothing beats the buzz of making someone else’s life even incrementally better, in my opinion. Lately, however, my smiles more closely resemble the grimace of a of woman who just stepped on an upturned plug, I can’t laugh at myself because I’m so damn sensitive that I’ll probably cry and I don’t really have a lot to give right now.
Back to those drafts.
I have been known on occasion to find myself in very real danger of having a rant. My writing of late has been somewhat lacking in purpose or meaning, and definitely in ‘ranting’ territory. I’ve been tired, sad and frustrated and I know a lot of other people will be feeling similarly, and worse as this total arse of a year comes to a close. I don’t so much feel sorry for myself, but for the current state of the world and have found that these feelings have manifested themselves in some quite scathing pieces of writing which may or may not be justified, or at best reader-friendly. Other times, these pieces are waffling, vague lamentations without any real end or moral and my sense of accomplishment has been nil.
It’s like being served up a shambolic cocktail of hormonal fluctuations, sunlight deprivation and inept politicians when you’re already drunk on global pandemic.
Despite a delightful departure from reality in the form of a government-sanctioned, socially-distant Christmas day with my family (for which I am immensely grateful, and painfully aware of those who sadly spent the festive period alone), I still couldn’t help but feel an underlying bitterness and a wrenching frustration at how out of my control the things that are bothering me happen to be. It’s like being served up a shambolic cocktail of hormonal fluctuations, sunlight deprivation and inept politicians when you’re already drunk on global pandemic. These feelings have certainly been reflected in my writing and this is something that as an aspiring journalist, I think I might have to learn to curb a wee bit.
Writing with integrity seems to be rather a fine art. Being true to yourself is often at odds with engaging a broad and varied audience. Part of my learning journey this year, has been distinguishing between my professional writing and my blogging, oversharing and openness, ranting and raising awareness. I have also had to learn of late, the relevance of that old cliche that ‘it’s not the destination, but the journey that counts’, something that my partner, annoyingly, has been saying to me for years in relation to my climbing!
One thing I have often found productive – and I think this is quite applicable to a lot of aspects of life, not just blogging – is to sit on those drafts for a while. I have written letters in fits of emotion that I later tore up, reticent. Some of them I sent, some of them I still have and some of them I might still send one day, so watch out! Re-reading and reassessing situations gives me clarity, and that in itself helps me to put out into the world what I feel strikes a balance between true-to-myself, informative and inclusively engaging (I hope). So, why does it matter to me so much that I never finish anything, that I never actually publish these outpourings of emotion? If the catharsis of writing in the first place enables you to deal a little bit more rationally with your feelings, surely that’s good enough and those drafts have served their purpose.
And so, to the outdoorsy parallel in this rather rambling (but luckily, not ‘ranty’) post…
I went for a run today. Having spent the majority of the daylight hours of Christmas eve 2020 inside at work, during what can only be described as a spectacular winter’s day in the Lakes, I was feeling a bit downtrodden. In the evening, I scrolled woefully through my Instagram feed, enviously double-tapping images of invigoratingly icy wild swims, blinding snowy peaks and smiling climbers summitting the classics and wished that I had something to share too. Truthfully, I’d have been lucky if I’d had the energy to walk to the post box and back, but I still felt that bitterness and frustration. After spending boxing day primarily in my pyjamas, I returned to work at an ungodly hour this morning and felt guilty for my inactivity over the festive period. As I drove home from work, I assessed whether or not my guilt was justified.
It was not.
On Christmas day, we walked the dogs. A short, satisfying, low-level stroll. It wasn’t an intrepid expedition of any kind, and it didn’t need to be in order to yield a sense of accomplishment. I could have stayed in bed all day and that too would have been fine, except that the dogs would have been pretty cheesed off. On arriving home this afternoon, I decided that I would go for a jog. Road running isn’t my favourite, but in order to make the most of the dwindling daylight and the fact that I actually felt a brief respite from the ‘wading through treacle’ sensations of last week, I put on my hideously hi-vis windstopper and off I went, pounding the pavements of Penrith. It was grey and grim, there were disposable face masks strewn all over and not ONE person stepped aside to let me pass at a safe distance so I had to swerve into the road on multiple occasions. The cars were noisy and obtrusive, I took a big old gulp of secondhand cigarette smoke on more than one occasion, and there were no instagram-worthy views to stop and snap, unless you really dig Morrison’s carpark. Overall, a pretty disappointing and short lived route, yet somehow, my entire mindset shifted in a more positive direction. Testament again, to the mood-altering, empowering, uplifting effects of getting outside and just doing something, whatever your ‘thing’ may be.
Pat yourself on the back for the small wins, the less-than-ideal, the incomplete and the imperfect – you’re doing alright.
I would like to acknowledge at this stage in my unceremonious brain-dumping, my position of privilege in the current climate. Regardless of whether we are better or worse off than others, you are entitled to experience and express discomfort when your life is disrupted. Our feelings are all valid, it’s what you do with them that counts.
And as for the running, who cares if it wasn’t pretty, fulfilling or ‘complete’? It was a small win. In the same way that venting my frustrations through writing gives me clarity and calm, even if I never finish that blog post, send that letter or publish that article, so running raises my mood.
Pat yourself on the back for the small wins, the less-than-ideal, the incomplete and the imperfect – you’re doing alright.