Tag Archives: Worried

No. 642

panic cycle

This is post number six hundred forty-two here at annehollander.com.

And it’s been a longer than anticipated absence since post number six hundred forty-one.

Sorry about that.

I haven’t written in more than a year.  And while it could be convenient to say much has happened – nothing has.

For that I take full blame.


I miss the creation days.  The days lazily typing in a coffee shop, a pastry reward for a solid, editable five hundred words.  The nights spent living and listening for exactly what a character sounds like, looks like, feels life at the end of a bar or back of a car or among a crowd of those who forgot that life meant something, somewhere, some time ago.  And, perhaps, that kindred spirit who still believes in something, separated from cynicism, and willing to take that chance, whatever it may be.

Instead I’ve found narrowed comfort in a numbing nine-to-five, grocery shopping, and a bottle of wine in front of whatever will stream to my living room television, alone to glance at the two-dimensional characters someone else created.  I don’t find jealousy – no, it’s much worse – just apathy.  A lack of interest in the creative, a dearth of considered analysis in a sea of knowledge, and, sadly, diminishing drive to get up, get out, and work at something that one incessantly teased and taunted me.

And that scares the fuck outta me.  The world is spinning faster and faster each day, and I’ve pushed myself outside the whirling dervish and into false comfort.  I should be in the middle, documenting with my own eyes, ears, and experience.

This is post no. 642, fresh with resolve to roll the dice and see where this takes me again.  Perhaps faked until it’s truly made.  But it’s a start – and one I can find confidence in.


Sleeplessness due primarily to self-righteous anger.

A smarter friend once said depression is anger turned inward.  Is this state of mind (and full body assault) then depression turned outward?  That final snap triggered to the unreasonable, irrational, illogical catharsis?

For years I’ve attempted to chronicle exactly this situation (with fictional twist) and even now I’m thwarted.  I’m living it, I’m experiencing it, I’m watching so closely yet this is the point where writing gets hard.  I don’t know what to say or what to write and as I try typing out these words, the ones you’re reading right here, the anger recedes from the overboil to a bare simmer.

And its in these unobserved moments I find that little bit of hope and optimism amid the swirling ugliness released.  That I can do this.  That I can make this work.  That it will all be okay.  That I will survive and thrive, and that one day I’ll look back on this and think “yep, that was the right move” – or think “yikes, screwed that one up” — but still I fight regardless of the regrets or affirmations.

So while I may have hit extreme burnout, and while this anger causes trouble and underconsidered or ill-advised action, tomorrow will be different.  Starting tomorrow, it’s all mine.

Blinking Eyes

Anne Hollander & broken

A very wise man said to me a few weeks ago “slow down, take your time – or you’ll burn out.”

I admit I’ve heard this many times before; my version of patience allows for a fully streamlined perfect execution gliding gracefully into a deadline – no screwing around or wasting time once the decision(s) have been made.

Had he (or anyone else) admonished “slow down, don’t do everything – or you’ll break something,” it may have caught me off-guard just enough to take a couple eyeblinks in consideration.

‘Cause in the blink of an eye Saturday morning, I lost functionality of my right arm.  A freak accident on the soccer fields, my five year olds laughing through my starry-eyed daze.  Hours later, it was declared I’d broken my arm in two places, smashed my elbow to smithereens, and disrupted the delicate musculature of my shoulder.  And so I was immobilized and provided sleep courtesy of a narcotic bouquet.

Today the appointment with the orthopedic specialist was serious.  My career with the piano may be officially over and in two weeks, I will return to have more photos taken (x-ray and MRI) along with a determination as to whether surgical intervention is necessary to reset the bones from my hand to my shoulder.  In the interim, a soft splint from my knuckles to armpit, a lightweight design to allow the shoulder to heal, but with the determination of molded fiberglass locking my hand, wrist, and elbow into stationary place.

Then it was home to sleep through the trauma and its slow tedious repair.

A particular sadness has swept through me to the tune of “this is what it takes – still?”  Bodily trauma has been my wake-up call again and again – and again and again.  Now that I look at up to twelve weeks (!) of healing followed by therapy, now that each and every action I take has attention and purpose, I have an overriding need to determine whether purpose and action align elsewhere in life.  Frieda Kalho evaded depression by painting.  I avoid the same with writing.  Now that it takes me longer to physically write or type the words, what will happen to my frenetic style as I now have several blinks of consideration before the word fully forms or appears?  Add the strengthened desire to write despite the exceptional pain, however modulated, and suddenly I’ve developed a new (improved?) voice and style.  With that, can we expect new (and improved?) action and purpose?

Time will tell.