Coping

BY: JASON RAYNER

The face of someone who has no idea how he’s actually feeling.

There isn’t a lot to say about the initial feeling of quarantine that hasn’t already been covered. And if I’m being honest, I still feel fairly traumatized by it and I most likely won’t process it all completely until years from now. Because that’s what happens when enduring a collective trauma like this.

As we move into the next month of living life in isolation, some of the stress of the situation may dissipate but overall, I find myself feeling the same. I may have cut down on self monitoring every possible symptom of COVID by about 70%, but I still don’t feel like myself. I still feel simultaneously tired and restless, it’s still a struggle to care about health and fitness, I still don’t feel particularly motivated, and I miss my friends.  

I still don’t know how to cope. 

And judging by the internet, I would guess none of us really know how to cope. Or sorry, the curated version of ourselves on the internet don’t know how to cope.

Since the onset of the pandemic, there have been several distinct groups of social media posters. There are the people that post every possible news story with their very own hot take (although let’s be real, they’ve probably only read the headline that doesn’t even match the content of the story). There are the people who insist on posting about their progress - pages of screenplays or books they are writing, the closets they’ve cleaned out, or photos of their daily fitness stats. These posts are the most innocuous but also confusing, as I don’t actually know what the point of these posts are supposed to be. Then again, I didn’t really understand the point of the posts before we were quarantined, so I’ll just move on. 

Then there are the two groups that are on seemingly opposite ends of the posting spectrum but are actually the same. They are the groups obsessed with productivity. There are those that believe this is the time for self improvement, the time for us to get that hot body, so we can drive that Maserati. Their counterparts are those that post political rant after political rant telling you that if you’re spending your days doing anything other than being socially engaged, you’re wasting your time. Stop watching Netflix and stop the patriarchy! (As if a girl can’t do two things at once! Also, I’m pretty sure fighting the patriarchy is a constant, ongoing fight that won’t be toppled while we are all sitting in quarantine and guilting people for watching TV is kind of a stretch. Also art is a great tool for education and  can be used to help in the fight to topple the patriarchy…but, I digress).

The difficult thing to swallow about all of these different sources coming at us is that they are all coming from the same place. We all feel helpless. We all feel defeated. We all have no control over anything in our lives right now so we turn to the internet to try and control a space where our voices are amplified. I don’t think the majority of people who post are trying to be hurtful or be malicious, but I also think we don’t realize that in a time where we are all desperate for connections with each other, everyone’s online voice is heightened. A person’s social media account isn’t just a place for people to share their own thoughts, it has a built in audience full of people that have nothing else to do but watch.

We can repeat over and over again that our social media accounts are not our actual experiences. They are carefully crafted images that hide what’s really going on. A sly smile can hide the true panic unfolding in someone’s mind. Self deprecation and memes about being stuck inside help distract from stress. But being inundated by post after post of everyone shouting into the void of the internet can get overwhelming, especially since we seldom say what we’re really feeling, allowing us to truly connect in a time when we need connection. 

So I’m here to say, even a month in, I don’t feel motivated. If I write, I’m doing it for a distraction. If I’m being honest, I doubt anyone is going to create a great piece of art about isolation while in isolation (I’m already dreading the indies about [straight white] couples learning to deal with their crumbling relationships during the pandemic).

It’s okay to be emotionally fragile. I feel like even on a good day, I have dark spells. It’s okay to be afraid of getting sick, or to be concerned about the health of your loved ones. I think about it often, too. It’s okay to worry about your financial security while also not caring about diet, fitness, or feeling motivated. Trust me, I’m there too. 

I feel like it needs to be repeated over and over because the thing no one seems to really showcase online is vulnerability. It feels like we spend so much time attaching our worth to how much we do. We are so blinded by the concept of success that I don’t even think we know what it truly means. I woke up on a true day off - I’m in between contracts and on CERB - and didn’t know what to do with myself unless I started creating work for myself. If I spend a Wednesday not wanting to do anything, I feel guilty, despite not feeling motivated. Even writing this blog post has been a struggle, with me stopping to google fun colours I could dye my hair, (everything is sold out so I guess I’m not that original), thinking about upkeep of the beard I’ve started growing, and thinking about which type of crackers I want as a snack (this actually is not different from my actual writing process). The reason why I’m writing this isn’t as a way to show my awesome writing discipline - although I admit the very pressure to be productive that I’m calling out in this blog post is looming over me - but as a way to process and hope that other people might be feeling the same as me right now, because like most people, I’m craving some honest, vulnerable connection. 

I believe there’s power in saying “I’m just getting by” without asking for advice or words of encouragement. The word unprecedented gets thrown around a lot, and I think it’s pretty accurate. We are all just figuring it out. And believe me, that is enough. Because right now, the most important thing to me right now is surviving. 

We’ve created a culture that is truly unsustainable and even as the holes are being poked through it, it still feels scary to create a space to be vulnerable and say “hey, I’m tired and I need to do nothing while I process”. Instead we try to start dialogues about how we can be doing more. I’m happy for people who can do a lot, but I’m really happy to chat with people about doing nothing but feeling the immediacy of this moment. 

Sometimes you can’t do anything, and that’s fine. Vulnerability is strength, and believing that is sometimes very difficult. And that’s okay too. 

We’re doing amazing, sweetie.

The Big Single

BY: JASON RAYNER

The face of a chronically single but nice gay boy.

It has been four and a half years since my last relationship.

Four and a half years. 

It would be powerful to say that this was a self imposed sabbatical - because, in a lot of ways it was. It just wasn’t an intentional self imposed sabbatical. 

I should also note that I’m being very generous when referring to anything in my dating history as a relationship. Throughout my 20s I found myself going from three month stint to three month stint, usually following the same cycle. I’d always start off high on the concept of connection, obsess over intensity, and then have it fall flat before it was ever really able to stand on its own. 

I’ve never been in a long term relationship. In fact, the last relationship I was in was my longest at four months. .

Exhausted from the cycle of my 20s, dating and relationships in my 30s became something I started to procrastinate. Any time I thought about the prospects of a relationship, I’d also question if I really needed one. After all, I happen to be a fairly independent person, and I actually like spending time alone. When Kelly Clarkson sang “Doesn’t mean I’m lonely when I’m alone” I felt that. So why would I put pressure on myself to find someone to be with when I could hang out solo with a glass of wine, face mask, and Jennifer Lopez movie? Plus, I was getting very comfortable being the witty single friend who regales people at gatherings with hilarious and sometimes salacious Grindr hookup stories, or tales of disastrous dates with men who look like a mature Tom Holland that turn out to be priests (I say this as if this has happened more than once, it hasn’t. But it is also a true and tremendous story for another time). 

Well it turns out the unintentional self imposed sabbatical has ended. Because, after four and a half years, I’m finally ready to come out and say it. 

I want to fall in love. I want a relationship. I want a boyfriend. 

Even while writing those very sentences I could feel my heart tighten and my brain wanting to intervene and turn what I’ve written into a punchline that would to cover up my exposed vulnerability.

In all honesty, for all of my cynicism and the self deprecation I’m a hopeless romantic. I grew up obsessed with the deep pining love songs of No Doubt and Gwen Stefani and my teen years were influenced by Carrie Bradshaw and basically any rom com from Bridget Jones to Notting Hill or When Harry Met Sally. My favourite movie and book is Call Me By Your Name. The problem is, most of these stories make love seem like a struggle. Almost all of them involve a sequence where the couple is torn apart by a major obstacle that leads to breaking up until the end of the third act when they realize that actually, they were meant to be together. Or in the case of Call Me By Your Name, circumstance gets in the way (and sadly, in the vast majority of queer films, that circumstance is AIDS and/or death. But I digress), and love is just too damn precious to hang on to. 

As a result, I seemed to only crave relationships that felt difficult. And for years, I blamed those influences for giving me unrealistic expectations of love. 

It wasn’t until recently when I started replaying the limited romantic interactions that I’ve had over the last four and a half years that I realized I never was Bridget Jones (although I am clumsy AF, swear too much, and embarrass myself constantly), but maybe was more like the gay version of Hugh Grant (which in a way would also mean I get to be a Paddington villian. Although if I was in the Paddington universe I would never want to pretend to hate that lovely little bear. Wait. I’m getting off topic and referencing Paddington Bear again, aren’t I?). 

Of those men I did get involved with, some were dates that proved to be disasters (bad chemistry, the fact that he turned out to be a priest), some guys turned out to be flakes or jerks, but most weren’t bad at all. I just didn’t let that stop me from finding a way to make it not work.

I’ve realized that I actively look for the negatives. I look for delays in text messages, or opinions that I don’t necessarily agree with. If that doesn’t work, I try to make snap judgements on their maturity, assume they probably have a lack of ambition, or my personal favourite, I say that we lack the elusive sparks that every relationship needs (cue Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark).

Nothing is as bad as when a guy manages to clear all of those hurdles. Because instead of going with it, even if I have evidence that he likes me, I search for a way to convince myself that there must be a mysterious ulterior motive. Or that I’m trying too hard to make my “Elio in search of an Oliver” fantasy come true, and that I’m naively missing something that could end up hurting me. 

So I push them away. I become the one who doesn’t respond to texts or doesn’t hang out with them. I let them move on, and before I can give myself the space to be upset about it, I say that I’m relieved because deep down I knew it wouldn’t really work. 

In other words, I sabotage and put up walls to avoid the potential of rejection. I have become a cliche. How boring, I know!

That’s not to say this thought process is totally unwarranted. I’ve been through a lot, especially in the last year and a half - scroll through this blog for a sample platter of what’s been going on. However, I’m writing this to say I’m tired of repeating my destructive patterns. I finally feel ready to move forward and not let my past stand in the way. 

Now the biggest problem is figuring out how to do it. As noted earlier, I’ve never entirely removed myself from dating apps but it’s been a while since I’ve honestly put myself out there. Putting effort into online dating feels strange and uncomfortable. Partly because I’m making decisions on people without knowing anything beyond what someone lists as their hobbies, or how they answer “fun” questions such as “how my third grade teacher would describe me”. And even if I wade through that and find someone I match with, I still have to wait for him to message me back back. Messaging back, for those of you who don’t use dating apps, has the same success rate as waiting for Godot. You sit in vain, hoping for a response, and at least with gay dating it almost never comes (you’d be surprised by how many profiles outright make mention of this, and then once you match with them and send the first message never hear back). 

It’s a lot. In fact going to the Apple Store without a Genius bar appointment is more relaxing than online dating (for those of you who don’t own an Apple product, the Apple Store is the closest we will come to understand what hell on Earth is). 

Regardless, I’m up for the challenge. I’m learning to be okay with being open about wanting to find someone. I don’t know if I’ll be good at being a boyfriend but I also don’t want to waste any more time missing out on great people because of that uncertainty. 

So I’m writing this blog to hold myself accountable to putting myself out there. And if you know me in person, don’t be surprised if I ask you if you have any single friends, co-workers, or Amazon delivery men that I could potentially date.

The Return

BY: JASON RAYNER

Me in Berlin, not the most excited to go home.

If you’ve read this blog, follow me on Instagram, or have had a conversation with me in the last few months, you know that I recently spent a month in Paris, Barcelona, Munich, Prague, and Berlin. Being wildly neurotic and having a naturally uncanny ability to get ahead of myself, I spent a good portion of the time before I left worrying that I would not only have a terrible time but, that I would also come back without a Julia Roberts/Reese Witherspoon Eat Pray Wild Love mash-up  transformation. 

What happened was beyond anything I could have imagined. It was a month where I was able to focus on my own art and the art of others, expose myself to various cultures, and physically remove myself from many of the issues and struggles that had been plaguing me over the last year (you know stress about the future of my career, terrible body image, my deep rooted fear of commitment and dating, grief. Basically name a common issue, and I’ve probably got it!). 

What I didn’t anticipate was the feeling of true, honest dread of coming back to Toronto. About halfway through the flight back home it suddenly sunk in that I was going to return back to a life that I had essentially repressed memory of. When we began our descent, I looked out the window and saw Toronto in all her glory. It was dark, and Toronto was bright and vibrant and just like Mimi talking about the ghost of Angel at the end of RENT, she looked good. However, as we got further to the ground, I felt  a sharp sinking feeling that was far more vivid than the usual “oh how sad vacation is done, I don’t want to go back to work”. I felt like I was risking losing a piece of myself that had grown while I was there. It was as if I was on my way to my boyfriend’s house, knowing full well that I want to break up with him. 

I had fallen out of love with Toronto.

While away, I felt myself changing. I found myself in a more earnest and sensitive mindframe. I would allow myself to take time to emotionally connect to what was around me - whether it be a painting at an art gallery, the surrounding architecture, or focusing on the song that I was listening to while exploring the city. I was taking time to be sentimental and to my surprise, it was nourishing. I felt like I was being a little bit more like something that I’ve heard discussed on an Oprah Super Soul podcast. 

Allowing myself to be in touch with my emotional state, also allowed me to be more productive with my work. In the time that I was gone, I found myself worrying less about quantity and more about quality. The result, ironically enough was that once I let go, I wrote enough for a feature film worth of material. By allowing myself to connect, the words poured out, and it didn’t matter how many hours a day I spent writing it, or how many pages a day I wrote.

Most importantly, it affected my everyday life. I was more patient with others but mostly myself. I was gentler and kinder. I was open to experiences and people. The tension in my shoulders that I had carried from stressing myself out that I wasn’t enough had dropped. It was like I learned how to live life like my hero, Paddington Bear. 

In Toronto, I find myself constantly overwhelmed. North American culture thrives on hustle, especially with a career in the arts. There are always emails to answer, there are always multiple projects to balance, and there is always (unfriendly) competition. If I’m not overwhelmed by my career, it’s usually pressures regarding how much money I should have, or what things someone my age should have either accomplished or should own (isn’t capitalism grand?), regardless if they’re things that I want.

Before I left I was becoming someone I didn’t entirely recognize. I was becoming jaded and petty to the point that I was shocked when someone called me positive - partly because if felt like an insult implying that I was naive. I would stress myself out to the point that I would have extreme emotional overreactions to things that didn’t really matter. I was spreading myself thin and I wasn’t happy. I was losing touch with things that I loved and myself. I wouldn’t allow myself the luxury to be vulnerable.

Of course, I’m also aware of the travel haze. Being away means exposure to only the best parts of a place - eating great food, going to the most beautiful attractions and galleries, and partying in all the best spots. Travelling is essentially a Madonna Greatest Hits package of a city - everything is a massive bop because track 10 from True Blue was cut (fun fact: there is no track 10 on True Blue - ha!). The last thing I want to be is the person who spends the next three months talking about how everything is better in Europe because I spent a month there and lived the best possible version of life. 

Taking that into account, I’ve never felt more alive than I did when I was in Paris or Berlin. To me, Paris is the most romantic, beautiful, and electrifying city in the world. I feel confident declaring it my favourite place to visit but it doesn’t quite feel like a home. Berlin, on the other hand is a different story. It is such an exciting, wild, weird, and progressive place. Within minutes of walking through the train station I didn’t just feel connected, I felt settled. 

So what do I do? I feel like the version of myself that touched down in Toronto is a more authentic one. I also don’t know how that version fits in with life in the city.

The reality is I live in Toronto. My career is establishing itself here, and the vast majority of the people I love - and I cannot overstate the importance of this - live here. I also know that being physically away from problems can allow for fresh insights but picking up and leaving won’t magically solve everything. 

That being said, I don’t want to make any decisions until I’ve done everything I can to repair my relationship with the city.

Which is why I’ve made a pact with myself to give the city a year. Most of the things that I loved about my trip - the culture, the art, the food - are all things Toronto has. For the most part, a lot of my dissatisfaction with this city is my own fault. I’ve become complacent and stubborn and hesitate to go anywhere that is farther away than a 30 minute walk. I’ve somehow convinced myself that I prefer staying at home watching whatever streaming service currently has the most pop culture-worthy TV show instead of connecting with people in real life (sorry, liking someone’s social media post is not the same as a conversation). I’ve created a bubble that I never break out of at the expense of experiencing the city. The city has so much to offer, and I spend most of it sitting at home drinking wine (not to disrespect wine - although it seriously is overpriced here).

The goal is to actually live in this city. Just like if I was a tourist, I want to experience everything it has to offer. I’m going to say yes to things (like Shonda Rhimes told me to!), and not let distance, or HBO get in the way of it.

As for my perspective change? I think the most important thing I can do is apply those things I’ve learned while away to my life here. I can’t change the culture as a whole but I can change how I interact in that space. The noise and distraction will always be there, but it’s always been up to me when choosing to listen to it.

For the longest time, Toronto was one of my great loves. Born and raised here, being a Torontonian has been an essential part of my identity and it feels strange to doubt that. I don’t know where the future is going to take me entirely but I feel different and I feel like I’m on the verge of a new chapter. I just don’t know if the next chapter in my life involves living in Toronto. There’s a very good chance that chapter will happen in Europe. But I don’t want to break up with Toronto without giving them a fair shot.

The Trip

BY: JASON RAYNER

Bon Voyage, Friends!

At the time of posting, I’ll be a few hours away from boarding a plane and heading to Europe for 32 days. The trip will take me to Paris for a few days, Barcelona for a few weeks, and then I’ll hit up Munich, Prague, and Berlin. Some of the trip will be work focused, some of it will be with other people, and a portion will be entirely alone. 

In theory, it sounds like the kind of antidote your friend from Deb from HR shares on their Facebook page - you know, the kind of graphic with cursive text over a bunch of clouds saying “Travel more, live more”. And to some degree, it is. I’m absolutely clamouring for the chance to sit in a Paris cafe and pretend to smoke a long cigarette while writing. Or sitting on a patio in Barcelona, sipping amazing wine while working diligently. Or finding love with a handsome German gentleman that I meet on the dancefloor of a Berlin club. 

Obviously I’m excited. 

But also, I’m terrified. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware that most of the things that scare me are nerves and rooted in irrationality. Yet, as I’ve been getting closer to the trip, I’ve had the same fears running through my head. 

First, I’m realizing how long a month really is. I initially chose a month because it sounded whimsical and romantic. Now, as I get closer - as in hours away, I worry how prepared I actually am. What if all the work I’ve been doing on DuoLingo has been in vain and I understand nothing? Do I actually have enough money? What is I get lost one day and can’t find my way back and don’t know how to ask for help because DuoLingo failed (because apparently in my nightmare state WiFi in Europe doesn’t exist)? What if I get lonely and need my support system (valid but again, I seem to have forgotten about the internet)?

Another portion of my fear comes from me spending a very small portion of the trip alone in Barcelona - a city I’ve actually been to before. In theory, the idea of spending a portion of time in the city and acting as if I actually live there has always been something I’ve wanted. So much so that I’ve even flirted with the idea of moving abroad on a work visa. Then, earlier this summer, I was on a work trip in Montreal where I spent a week alone. I was doing pretty well until my last day, where I suddenly felt trapped, desperately wanting to get home (never mind the fact that the day after I landed I started a brand new six week contract that I knew would take up all of my time).  

Then I worry because I’m an extravert and at some point, I’m going to go crazy craving human interaction (because somehow I’ve forgotten that ¾ of the trip will in fact, be with other humans). 

Mostly I’m worried this trip isn’t going to live up to the crazy standards I’ve placed on it. I’m worried that I’m going to leave for a month and nothing will change - because for some reason, I’ve told myself that this has to be transformative. If I don’t have an Eat, Pray, Love experience, then I’m going to let myself down (There is obviously no pray component in play, although I can confidently predict that I will also have a hard time fitting into my clothes after all of the food I will consume and devour). 

It’s a weird thing that we do as humans. Even when exciting opportunities arise, we find ways to stress ourselves out instead of just focusing on the exciting and positive. 

The truth is, I need this trip. I need to break my patterns, and that includes making a list of ways that a trip will disappoint me before I even go on it. 

What I need from this trip is the opportunity to focus on myself. The last year and a half I’ve felt like I’ve been at an amusement park, going from ride to ride, but not really paying attention to what I’m actually doing. I go from job to job, experience to experience, creating the same bad habits, and pushing my problems to the periphery where I can conveniently ignore them. Things like dealing with why I haven’t had a boyfriend in four years, or my tediously constant struggles with body image, or what it means to be an only child with only one living parent. 

This trip isn’t going to solve these things, especially the ones that are particularly heavy. I do however, hope that removing myself from the patterns I’ve created in Toronto, I can actually focus on spending time with myself, and maybe even gain a few tools to help me eventually conquer these issues.

And if not, then at least I can ensure that I sit in a Paris cafe and pretend to smoke a long cigarette while writing. Or sitting on a patio in Barcelona, sipping amazing wine while working diligently. Or finding love with a handsome German gentleman that I meet on the dancefloor of a Berlin club (that one is a stretch but hey, maybe I can try to maifest it!). 

Or, I don’t know, maybe take a few deep breaths and just have a really good fucking time.

The Difficulty With Getting Personal

BY: JASON RAYNER

I’ve always needed art to help me process my feelings. From reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower the way I’m sure Christians read the bible, listening to Dashboard Confessional so I can understand why I had so many emotions (although with the some perspective, I think maybe he had too many emotions. I mean he was in his late twenties and was still writing entire EPs about being in high school asking someone out to a party? It’s a little much), or watching films like the Before series as a way to get a preview of what a neurotic person like myself can potentially develop into (when Julie Delpy’s Celine matter of factly announces she is, like me, a Sagittarius in Before Sunset [which she co-wrote], I not only screamed but also Immediately googled Julie Delpy’s actual birthday and found out she was born on the same day as me [December 21 - mark your calendars, friends!]. We have a shared cosmic experience, so obviously these movies are more for me than anyone else).

The most important draw to this work was the catharsis I felt experiencing these stories. I felt less alone. I was able to understand myself. I was able to release my stresses, anxieties, and fears. No offence to the hard work of the magician community, but this is magic that I can actually get down with.

As I started to explore my own desire to create, I began to dip my toes in getting personal. Every film or sketch I have written - even if the premise is not based on my specific experience - is infused with my own personal catharsis. Then there is this blog, which has been pushing me to be as honest as humanly possible. While it often feels incredible to get things out into the world, it can also be crippling. Because the actual process of getting things out that are personal is exhausting, terrifying, and most importantly, difficult.

For the record, I’m not here to complain, evoke sympathy, or praise. I just want to be honest about writing. I admire artists who can put their heart into their work, and I want to follow their leads. But doing that is so much more than having words pour out of you. I’m writing this because we spend so much time talking about “hustling” and dropping social media posts about the countless projects we are working on, that we all seem like we are the perfect examples of #successmachines. Maybe everyone else around me is able to pump out great content with great ease, but I’m not. I’m more like Oz, except I actually have the spirit of the cowardly lion (he was obviously the gay one), and I’m blasting Whitney Houston’s Greatest Hits, getting distracted by her perfect angelic voice instead of actually writing. I have grand ideas about exploring facets of my personality but once I actually sit down to write, I’d rather do anything but dig into my psyche.

It makes it worse because, by nature I’m a procrastinator. I always work best with a deadline and am forced to focus. When I was in university taking psychology (#tbt), I remember taking the Myers Briggs test (if you don’t know, I suggest googling it to learn some deep truths about yourself. Even though it isn’t really a proper psychological tool, it’s still a lot of fun in a much more in depth than a Buzzfeed quiz kind of way). One of the scales Myers Briggs rates a person on is extraversion vs. introversion. And while I actually think I am far more introverted than people realize, I scored overwhelmingly high on the extraverted scale. Why am I mentioning this? Because one of the things about extraverts is that they tend to spend a lot of time procrastinating. So much so that they can only work in short, concentrated bursts. Which is to say, that even on the best day, I can usually only write one paragraph before I feel like I need to reward myself with a sing along to whatever song is currently playing, check up on movie projects I wish I was making, refresh of my Twitter feed, and a do a quick sweep of my texts. This is all a long winded way to say that I already have a habit of procrastination and writing about personal things as a way for catharsis becomes an even bigger uphill battle.

(And yes, it’s worth noting that after finishing that wordy paragraph, I did in fact check my phone, twitter, and marinate the chicken I’m planning to eat for dinner).

I’m aware of the release that comes with cathartic writing. I gain introspection. I can let out my deepest thoughts and fears and hopefully connect with others over our shared experiences. It’s like going to the gym - there are only benefits to going, and it really only takes a little bit out of the day, and damn health is absolutely the most important thing to take care of, but you better believe I am constantly arguing with myself before I actually drag myself out there and most of the time I still contemplate turning around.

The problem seems to lie with allowing myself to go to places that scare me. While previous iterations of my personal writing were focused on re-examining relationships that went awry, or as a platform to present frustrations or release epiphanies, they mostly felt like vent sessions. Writing can be an insidious activity, and sometimes what’s on the page continues past publication.

I can only imagine what it was like for Amy Winehouse. Back to Black is one of the all-time greatest albums (this is one of the few instances where I am judging art objectively). It was so emotionally uncompromising and raw and vulnerable and the process of creating it destroyed her. I always think of a series events in the documentary Amy (essential but heartbreaking viewing) where there was discussion over her reluctance to performing songs from Back to Black ever again. It represented her darkest times of her life and she simply didn’t want to re-re-visit the pain.

Not that I am comparing myself to Amy Winehouse. At all.

What I’m realizing is while I have always been drawn to personal work, I’ve taken it for granted. I’ve appreciated the end result, I’ve neglected to think about the process. With so much art available to us, it is easy to constantly consume, and as a creative, it is easy to feel pressure to constantly work on a schedule.

I know that I’m not talking about being a cancer researcher, or working in public service, or a doctor. I know that a lot of people have to perform consistently, and the stakes are a lot higher. However, I do believe art matters. And while it is often treated as a commodity, it also isn’t something that can always be rushed. And we shouldn’t rush ourselves to create it. And the catharsis will be worth it.