From my journal for September 1994
O gosh, I feel so sad and bummed out. I see lots of things I “should” do, organizing house type things, and I feel “what’s the use.” The planes haven’t been too bad so far, perhaps they’re flying the more tolerable pattern. And what will I do with my day? Downstairs, finishing breakfast, I noted that deadness in my muscles that comes from tension and lack of movement. It would be good if I could do some dancing today. Put on Mouth Music and dance around watering the plants — at least I can do that behavior, even if “what’s the use” kills the enjoyment.
For trouble with planes see Plane Phobia.
I see by reading through the exercise on cherishing myself, and trying to do it, how very difficult that is for me, and I become aware of how numbed-out I am, how my artist’s life is strangled by invisible “not allowed”s, and stiffened by disuse, how the soil of my artist’s life is not deep and rich, friable and fertile like good garden soil. Instead it’s hard, dry, almost stony, the sort of stuff that blows away in the wind. The only way to nourish my vocation as an artist is to nourish the soil, to do the sort of things that Cameron lists under “cherishing.”
I’m working with Julia Cameron’s Book: The Artist’s Way
I’m having a really bad time with the planes. I tried to listen, telling myself that it was my “enemy”, the one in me who hates me for being so sensitive and vulnerable, I tried to hear the unmet need behind that, but couldn’t get anywhere. Finally, it began to feel like I was listening to a freaked-out baby screaming, and its mother screaming back, and I couldn’t stand it any more, so I put on the walkman, and I’ve been under the earphones ever since. The planes don’t stop long enough for me to take them off and I’m too freaked out to tolerate even the lower level of noise. There’s one out there snarling right now, I can hear it through the music on the earphones. I think what I’ll do is leave early for Cathy’s party, not come back til dark, just drive around in the car if nothing else works. I’ll take this journal in case.
O gosh, I feel so sick, so physically weak, so helplessly angry. I’ve got to get away.
Reading through something like this I realize how far I have come, and how much I was up against. Helps me find some compassion and some admiration for that odd struggling creative person.
Hating myself for my reaction to the planes. Mother told me over and over “Don’t be so sensitive,” so I thought it was a choice. That’s why I thought that protecting myself was somehow cheating. But I’m a highly sensitive person, and I do need to protect myself from the toxic environment of the industrial world.