…and sometimes that’s okay.
2018 and 2019 have both been pretty big years for me. Not in terms of writing success, unfortunately, but in terms of life. Over the past couple of years, my writing has had to take a backseat.
My partner and I spent most of 2018 planning our wedding, and in October we finally tied the knot (literally — we incorporated a handfasting ritual into our ceremony). Neither of us had ever planned anything as elaborate as a wedding before (has anyone?), and it was way more stressful than I think either of us could have imagined. Music and food choices consumed my mind for months on end, while my partner focused on planning our wonderful honeymoon in the UK. The ceremony was beautiful and we were both so happy to be married in front of our family and friends, but I don’t think either of us want to do something like that ever again.
Then I spent the first five months of 2019 in and out of doctors’ offices, making appointments, dealing with insurance, all culminating in surgery to have my thyroid removed in May. I had had plenty of time to prepare for it — mentally and emotionally. In late 2015 I’d been diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, an autoimmune disorder that causes the body to attack the thyroid. There are a host of symptoms that I won’t bore you with here (feel free to google it or email me if you’re curious), but between my diagnosis and surgery I ran the gamut of them all. My doctor and I initially opted to control my symptoms with medication, hoping to interrupt the action of the disease and maybe send me into remission, but after three years we’d had no luck. Throughout that time, I prepared for the possibility of surgery or radiation therapy to remove or destroy my thyroid. It was very much a grieving process, and I struggled a lot in the beginning. At first I denied it (maybe they mixed up my bloodwork with someone else’s), then I was angry (I’m young and healthy, I exercise, eat relatively well, why is this happening to me?). Bargaining meant briefly considering every snake-oil seller on the internet promising a “cure” for a disease who’s only real cure is remission or thyroidectomy. Depression hit like a ton of bricks, but didn’t last long as the medications I was taking to control my thyroid also helped balance me mentally (thyroid function is linked to some forms of anxiety and depression). For a while I held out hope that I would go into remission, that I wouldn’t have to have surgery. After two years, my antibodies were gone and my doctor decided to try weaning me off my medication, and I was hopeful. But the antibodies came roaring back almost immediately and back on the medication I went, this time with a referral to an ENT surgeon. After another brief wave of depression, I finally settled into acceptance. This was the hand I’d been dealt, it was up to me to figure out how to live (and thrive) with it.
My surgery went off without a hitch, thanks to a skilled surgeon who has thrice now stuck a camera down my nose to look at my vocal cords (0/10 stars, do not recommend that experience) and the rest of my medical team. Since my surgery, I’ve felt better than I have in years. I hadn’t noticed, but some Graves’ symptoms had stuck around even on my medication. But now they’re completely gone. I’m sleeping better, feeling stronger, dealing with less daily pain, and my mental health is better every day. I feel like I’ve got my life back, and I’m determined to enjoy it as much as I can from now on. It makes me kind of sad to think that one day my scar will be nearly invisible, because it’s a reminder of what I went through (plus I think it looks kind of badass).
Now that I’ve gotten through all of that, I’ve been able to get back into writing again on a more regular basis. The improvement in my mental health is, I think, the biggest factor in my being able to pick up writing again. Never let anyone sell you the idea that a struggling, mentally ill artist is always the best/most productive artist. Of course everyone’s experiences are different, but for me poor mental health absolutely blocked my writing. Depression cut me off from the emotions I needed to connect with in order to create. Anxiety paralyzed me and prevented me from starting or finishing anything. Mania made me bounce from one project to another, thinking I was making so much progress, when really I was just ping-ponging around, never getting anywhere.
Even when you have time to dedicate to it and it comes relatively easily, writing is still a slow process. In this second half of 2019, I’ve been building a grand new world and plonking characters down to play in it. I’ve drafted a novella and a short story in this world (I’m hoping to polish them up and send them out into the real world late this year or early next year), and have plotted a novel that I’m going to start on in a few weeks for National Novel Writing Month.
I’ve also been able to get back in touch with my love of crafting. I’ve always loved costuming, and in the months before my surgery, when I felt up to it, I channeled my nervous energy into building my first cosplay completely from scratch, Sheik from the Legend of Zelda series, something I’d been wanting to do for a long time. It was a huge undertaking, but I’m very proud of how it turned out. Over Christmas last year, my mom taught me some of the basics of hand-embroidery and I’ve gotten really excited about it as a medium (the satisfaction of stabbing something thousands of times with a needle and having something beautiful come out of it never gets old). Lately I’ve been toying with the idea of opening an online shop so I can share my crafting excess with others. We’ll see if that bears fruit.
I’m very hopeful and excited for what 2020 will bring in my writing and in my personal life, and I hope you you can find some of that same excitement in your life as well.
<3 A.P. Hawkins