It’s that time of life again. I recently turned forty-four. An unremarkable number, but with each ticking of the digits, there are fewer ticks left. It’s early in the year, and like many, I have a desire to somehow better myself. I’m incredibly overweight, so I need to do something about i\that. I feel my mind losing its power, so I need to do something about that. I’m not as creative as I once was, so I need to do something about that.
I always need to do something about that. Just like you. Just like everyone.
I’ve completed my third novel after 5 years. Far too long a time, but hey, it’s done. After sending it out to various editors, I’ve only received rejection, so I’m shaken. Is it done? Do I need to write it again? Does it even matter?
My life consists of taking care of my autistic son, who goes to school at home and relies on me to keep him on track, and trying to find some sort of fulfillment otherwise. I yearn for accomplishment, but that rarely comes from simple completion these days. I must find a way to be successful, for in forty-four years, I haven’t been. I need to do something about that.
If the mid-life crisis exists, I’m swirling in a pool of it. I’m forty-four after all. That’s twice as much as twenty-two, which means I’m twice as old as young. My contributions to the family aren’t tangible. I can’t pay for what we need, and I often can’t get my mind together well enough to offer anything but the occasional smile. My mental state is in constant transition, and I need to do something about that. It feels as if each mental cog is held together by worn band-aids, grinding together with each spin. I get there eventually, but not without cascading sparks and a lot of noise. Eventually, it will all come crashing down, and I need to do something about that.
So I keep a journal when I can. I try to find ways to work my mind. I seek the illusive thought, and when I manage to find it, I write it down in a little book. I do this because I worry that if I don’t, I’ll never find that thought again. Ideas are one-offs now, in my broken, forty-four year old brain. Recollection isn’t an option. If I want to keep my intelligence, it has to be written down before it seeps from my ears and across my t-shirt, only to be rinsed away forever in the washing machine.
Forty-four is unremarkable. So was forty-three, and I can only imagine that forty-five will be much the same. I’ll buy a new notebook and try to remember to write down my runaway thoughts. I’ll try to mold them into something resembling a creative process as I do now.
I’m in a death loop, and I need to do something about that.
