When I start to get really stressed out I often have the uncontrollable urge to retreat. Shut and lock the door. Erect social walls. Stop taking phone calls. Cease with all the endless emailing.
I stay in the bathtub longer than I should reading the New Yorker, ZoeTropes All-Story, The Sun Magazine, The Tin House and Bicycling magazine. National Geographic even. Anything to feed the mind while the body takes a vacation, submerged in warm, bubbly comfort.
I know I can’t live my life from the bathtub – even with this newfound freelancey-freedom that I have recently come across. The quieter I get, the more my emotions start to congeal. The more they congeal, the murkier and messier they get. I’m a person who can go really deep – I wade into the murky depths and it can be a valuable exercise. I frequently write from that place and most of my best material comes from those excursions. But I have to be careful not to stay very long because it can be heavy and hard and dark and the further I go, the harder it is to get back out.
With all the hard emotional bullshit that his happening for me right now, I’ve found it really hard to get myself to boot camp these past three days. During these times I absolutely rely on the presence of accountability to get me through. Quite honestly, the only thing that has gotten me there has been the idea that people are waiting for me – that people might miss me if I didn’t turn up.