When There’s Numbness Inside, We Can’t See the Beauty Outside

I seem to write in three-month intervals.  I will have a period of high productivity followed by a period of little to no productivity.  When I am productive, the world is filled with radiance.  I feel as if my body is receiving pulse signals for everything around me.  When I am not productive, I feel indifferent and sometimes down-right numb.  This is not good for my relationships.  During these periods, I can look at my husband, hell, I can look at myself in the mirror and feel nothing.  When there’s numbness inside, we can’t see the beauty outside.  If I go too long without writing, I feel like I’m smothering. 

This is not a new revelation.  Perhaps I just like to pretend that I have amnesia…or perhaps I like pretending that I’m normal and don’t need writing to get through life.  I’d love to be one of those people who busies themselves to the point of obliviousness, those people who lack introspection but don’t know it, one of those people who don’t see their mental/emotional patterns.  If I were that kind of person, I could just pretend to be baffled by the indifference and numbness.  I could have a child I don’t want, and years from now I could wonder why my relationship with my poor, unassuming daughter/son is so strained.  I could become addicted to drugs or become an alcoholic and wonder what I’m trying to escape.  I could cheat on my husband and tell myself I don’t know how this happened.  But I cannot and will not do these things.  I don’t allow myself to reside in lies, at least not long enough to do irreparable damage.  Besides, I promised God that I would never destroy myself or others.  Those are weighty promises, but a promise is sacred. 

I cannot separate the sanctity of writing from the sanctity of God.  That’s a good thing because I sort of like destruction.  I like closing myself off sometimes.  I like wrapping my hands around the throat of my creativity and squeezing the life from him.  Who the hell is he to mean so much to me?  Who is he to make me feel like I will die without him?  But then I remember the sanctity of writing, and I don’t destroy him.  I don’t destroy myself.  I write.  I see the radiance.  I remember who I am.  I remember my husband and all the beauty.