Craving//Connecting: Control and Creativity

“Can I wear my Elsa shoes to school today?”, my three year old asks, wide eyed and expectant.

The Elsa shoes she’s referring to are composed of sparkly blue patent leather with snowflake bows affixed to the top. There are no traces of blue or snowflakes in any other part of her outfit. I feel my shoulders tighten and inch higher toward my ears. My eye twitches before I take a deep breath as I let out a tentative, “sure” and watch as her face lights up with delight.

If you had told me a year ago, six months ago even, that I would consent to this seemingly small choice, I wouldn’t have believed you. As a highly anxious oldest daughter who once pursued a career in the medical field, some might say I struggle with control. And they would be correct.

Not only is it in my nature to want to exert control over everything possible in my life, I come by it through nurturing, as well.

Infertility is a tricky battle because there really is no “letting go”—in order to get pregnant, you actually have to do something about it. Unless you’re the virgin Mary, pregnancy doesn’t happen immaculately. And beyond the typical way you would go about pursing pregnancy, in the infertility world, there are tests and medications and appointments and procedures. There is always a next step to take, always something more to do.

So in March, after the last of our embryos failed to result in live births, I found myself in a place I hadn’t yet been. There was nothing left to do. We had come to the end of the road and there were no more “next steps” to take, we had taken them all. This realization brought with it a whole new level of anxiety and depression.

I felt like a pariah. Where I was once able to infuse hope into other people’s stories, I now felt like a bad luck charm. No one wanted to hear my story of failure, lest it happen to them. For so long I had found purpose in sharing my story, the struggles and successes, but now I felt like I had nothing of value to offer. My story was too bleak.

I also felt a loss of identity. For so long, whether I wanted to or not, I had worn the identity of infertility. While I didn’t ask for that title, after so many years, it had become a comfort to me. I knew how to operate within its confines. I knew how to stay on the phone for hours with insurance or nurses. I knew how to handle the routine of bloodwork and ultrasounds. I knew which medications to take and shots to give. I was a walking embodiment of the phrase “better to stick with the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.” I knew the devil of infertility. I did not know what other devils laid ahead and the prospect terrified me.

Who was I if I wasn’t trying to get pregnant, pregnant, or nursing? For the past five years, my body had not been my own—it was always in service of someone or something else. What would it look like to release myself from that burden?

I didn’t know. I felt totally lost and disoriented. My body reacted viscerally to the trauma of years of loss and I began to experience anxiety and depression like never before. While the future was never mine to plan, the last illusion I held of control had been ripped away and I didn’t know where it left me.

I cried out to the Lord, asking Him to show me what was next. I approached Him with open hands, no longer having anything on which to grasp. I lamented to Him how all the plans I had for myself had not and would not come to fruition and admitted I could not control the future.

I didn’t do this beautifully or eloquently, I did it through tears in the shower and prayers in my heart. I did it through listening to “I’ve Witnessed It” on repeat, reminding myself of all the times God had been faithful before, all the times my life took unexpected turns and He remained. I did it through therapy and conversations with friends and my husband. I did it through making sure I was taking the right dose of my anxiety medication, sometimes needing more, sometimes needing less.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, I began to notice a new path forming before me. Whereas before, the only worthy path in my eyes had been the one that led to pregnancy, now new avenues to new pursuits were appearing. New creative opportunities. Travel. Healing for my mind and my body for the sake of just truly feeling better. Slowly and then all at once, the Lord showed me how full my life could be when I released my expectations of how it should be.

One of the most unexpected blessings I found was a cohort of other creative women walking through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. Quite by accident I stumbled upon this group and I’m so thankful I did. The whole premise of the book is focused on creative recovery and releasing control of what your creative life should look like. This is achieved through daily morning pages, 3 pages written stream of conscious style every day, and weekly artist’s dates, treating your artist to an outing or experience which fuels your creativity. There are also weekly activities at the end of each chapter to help you dive deeper into that week’s subject matter.

While I could very well read through this book on my own and I am learning to loosen my grip on my life, I know myself well enough to know I would never complete these activities on my own. A weekly artist date? Who has time for that? Making a list of happiness touchstones in my life? I can think of a million better ways to spend my time. If I’m not putting words on the page for public consumption, what’s the point?

But in His gracious, providential timing, the Lord brought this group to me at exactly the right time to give me the accountability I needed to expand my horizons. Ideas which once seemed silly or frivolous now appear valuable. Activities I once snubbed, I am now considering. Where I once felt like my identity was rooted in infertility, I’m now exploring the multitudes I contain. I can feel the vice grip on my creative life loosening in tandem with the other areas in my life. The lessons I’m learning about creative recovery are synonymous with the lessons I’m learning about life recovery.

After a couple month reprieve, these last few weeks have thrown me right back into the deep end. Surgery, a three year old who suddenly decided to display the full spectrum of her three-year-old-ness by doing things like not sleeping or eating, the busyness of the holiday season, along with other life stresses, have all hit me at once. In the past, this would have sucked the creative life force from me. I would be left scrounging for any sense of control I could muster, in my writing and in my life. The words would dry up and I’d be tempted to soldier through, gripping everything ever so tightly along the way. But because I have been able to see a glimpse of what life looks like when I let go and because I have creative practices and habits firmly established, I don’t feel myself shrinking away like I have in the past.

Of course there are still issues I want to manage well and responsibilities that still fall within my purview. I have not simply thrown up my hands and walked away with a c’est la vie attitude, but I am learning how to keep going in the face of imperfection. I’m learning to wear the blue Elsa shoes, both literally and metaphorically.

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If creative recovery is something you’re longing for in your own life, I cannot recommend The Artist’s Way cohort, led by

Laura Bass

and

Laura Rennie

, enough. This group is also a great way to connect with other creative women if you feel like you’re on an island in your creative life. A new cohort is starting in January, perfect for starting the new year prioritizing those goals you’ve been putting off. You can get more information here and there’s a discount if you sign up before November 20. If you have any questions, clearly I love talking about this, so I’m happy to chat about anything you want to know!