Writing is a Tightrope Act
Balancing life and writing ain't easy, but you're not alone
I’m not going to lie. The writing life ain’t easy. Most of you probably already know this. But it’s worth repeating: writing is hard.
No, not the actual act of writing, though that can be difficult at times. I’m talking about the great tight-rope walk, the act of balancing your duties to spouses and significant others, parents, children if you have them, your job, and staying the course through all the chaos of the world, the disasters national and personal, political stressors, chaos and war.
Personally, I’ve lived through most of these. This is not to cement my position as a victim, nor to fish for your sympathy, but to point out that I’ve suffered too.
As brief as I can be: I score high on the ACE (Adverse Childhood Events) scale. I had a psychotic break when I was 17. My roommate and best friend shot himself in the head when I was 23. I was four blocks away when the first World Trade Center tower began to pancake and collapse on September 11th, and I thought I was going to die (I had PTSD for years.) During the COVID lockdowns I lived in Queens (I still do), ground zero for the start of the exponential U.S. outbreak, and there were sirens blaring every five minutes for weeks. I didn’t see my parents and family for over a year. My cousin, who was a brother to me, died during the first wave (not from COVID), and I never got to say goodbye to him in person. My uncle, cat, neighbor, sister-in-law, grand-parents-in-law all died within a span of three years. Many members of my family have had cancer. I have struggled with depression and, at various times, mental illness. I am a Jewish man who has experienced much antisemitism, both general and personal, and it has been frightening to see my fellow human beings, whom I thought I knew and trusted, say and promise hateful things, whether intentional or inadvertent.
Through all of this, I still write (though it’s sometimes hard.) And now I’m struggling with other health issues I’d rather not get into. I’m hoping they’ll resolve soon, but who knows? I’m getting older and no one lives forever. And though it sometimes hurts, and it’s hard, and I’m scared of what’s happening to the world, the environment, this upcoming U.S. election, and what will happen to my aging parents, and to my struggling family members, and to everyone I love, I still write.
I’m not boasting. Please don’t think that.
I’m trying to flatten myself out, make myself small. I’m not special. I don’t have any superpowers. I sit my ass in chair and write, even when I don’t want to. Writing is a kind of therapy, a catharsis, a lifeline in a sea of chaos. On the page is where my subconscious anxieties, fears, desires, lusts, and loves get expressed.
My point is, if someone like me can write, you can too.
If you feel stressed out, sad, depressed, lost, confused, angry, full of love and hate and despair, remember: you aren’t alone. And the best way I know of to alleviate that anxiety is by writing it down, by putting all your sadness, depression, loss, confusion, anger, love, hate, and despair onto the page. In so doing you are sharing your humanity. And when someone, sometime, will read it, they will see first that it is true, and then they will know that they are not alone, that we are not alone. That we’re all in this big ugly mess together.
Write it down. Write it all down.
Thanks for reading. If you like what I’m putting out, please check out more of my work at my website: matthewkressel.net. If you are observing Yom Kippur, I wish you an easy fast.
Thank you. This made my day.