on burnout, the wandering mind, and creativity
If hustle culture had a poster-girl for burnout, I’d be right there with Fenty mascara smudged under my bloodshot eyes in 4K.
“Melody sports a posh pinstripe suit, polished kitten heels, and is plagued with soul-crushing fatigue.”
Don’t get me wrong, I adore my career with everything in me. I aspire to be the age-old derogatory patriarchal tale of a woman who falls in love with her work, only accepted by her posse of purse dogs and variegated cats. I pride myself on being the gal who can do it all: 3AM espresso martinis at my local gay bar chased by 7AM medium roast espresso (with a splash of oat milk, of course) as I put my hair in a tight bun and drive into the city for my next meeting. Seeing the skyline from a distance will never fail to be exhilarating; finding myself within its labyrinth is even more fulfilling. I hear the click-click-click of my heels on concrete as I proudly push open glass doors that are twice my height, entering every opportunity with a sense of optimism.
This energy that I emit eagerly as part of my routine is starkly contrasted by my current sullen state. A lovely woman who formerly lived this life within the walls of my own office – years before my time – was introduced to me today: a sundress flowed over her tanned skin as she told me stories of renovating her recently purchased acreage. She hadn’t even shut my door all the way before I started crunching the numbers. The amount I’d need for a down payment on her stretch of land is currently in my bank account, taunting me with a green-eyed expression.
Buried memories flash through my mind: laying with my ex under the stars, pulling bits of grass out of their crocheted clothes and declaring that we’d plant purple hydrangeas at our hypothetical cabin destined for the Colorado prairies. I remember the weeks after our breakup, telling myself I’d instead opt for blue hydrangeas but would keep my rural dream, solitude included.
Fantasy is such a fickle foe. First of all, I fucking hate dirt. Who exactly did I think would be practicing the aforementioned botany? Furthermore, there is an exhaustive list of snakes who rule those lands, and I would simply die the day one darkened my door – venomous or not. I like nature in small, contained doses: the kind of expeditions that wrap up with a nap in silk pajamas on the airplane home. If those concerns didn’t drive me out of my mind, the wavering worries of abysmal aloneness would have eventually assassinated me anyway.
Given how I was living at the time of this pipe dream, it’s no wonder I didn’t have the capacity to consider the less desirable details. My favorite hobby that summer was popping 30mg of Delta 9 (which, briefly, was somehow legal for a 17 year old to purchase without limits) and laying in the grass too out of my mind to care if a colony of ants used my bare legs as a bridge. I would stare at the sunset as sweat glistened on my freckled skin, disassociating until the stars had been out for hours. If you asked me then, I’d tell you the universe Herself came down every night to regale me with tales of this planet’s creation. Now I think I was just suicidal, stoned, and prone to psychosis.
My point is, had I taken any time to really think about things, I would have realized I was dreaming of a safe-haven within a recipe for my misery.
Here’s something I learned today: hydrangeas have virtually no chance of survival in Colorado.
I can’t believe I only just figured this out, but it makes perfect sense: we both needed somewhere else to bloom.
Why, then, was I so ready to drop out of college in favor of playing housewife in a cottage? The answer is simple: in my fantasy, after magically depositing flora and waving to the furry wildlife, I would have a schedule filled with one thing only: creativity.
The situation has changed, but my longing remains the same: I was up late last night after popping a double-dose of melatonin, captivated by a webpage advertising all-inclusive writing retreats on the beaches of Greece. My first thought was the obvious – drinking Φρέντο Καπουτσίνο (look it up, it’s delicious) while my phone is MIA and I can feel the sand between my toes sounds like heaven. I have no doubt in my mind that I could write until my hands bleed.
However, the glaring $5,300 price tag prompted me to ponder how I could recreate such an environment. I started to retrace my steps, seeking the secret formula for flow state that has let me write freely so many times before. I realized that it’s never been the combination of incense and windchimes, or a fresh cup of tea, or the absence of any technology surrounding me.
It’s as simple as this: I stutter when I am stagnant. I write when I am living.
I don’t need to uproot my entire life to invent inspiration. There is no Iowa acreage or Colorado cabin or Thessaloniki sea that will ever beat the adventures I have from living authentically as me. I think of love poems in the back of seedy nightclubs when I’m pulling out dollar bills to hand a local drag queen. I constantly find myself searching up sheet music for the songs I hear downtown. I’m currently working on a painting of a model I walked the runway with last weekend.
Do I need to take a few more naps and stop scheduling 10 meetings in one day? Yes, definitely. Am I still content with where I am, chaos and all? Also yes.
I love myself for longing. It is this slightly-unrealistic imagination that helps branches grow on the fig tree of my future. It’s perfectly okay to watch them fester, but if Mrs. Sylvia Plath has taught me anything, I must equally indulge in life as I know it so that my soul does not starve.
Isn’t it so funny how things seem to magically work out? The landscaper at my apartment complex recently began transforming the courtyard for spring, and I just saw that sweet woman planting hydrangeas in every color. The poetic conclusion writes itself: purple, a nod to my past wishes…blue, an obvious ode to where I am now…and pink and white and green for all of the dreams I’m still discovering.
And, hey, with the way things unfolded….I didn’t even have to touch the dirt!
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