I’m simply at a loss for words lately. I find myself having to form thoughts manually; I feel I have nothing left to say, and my writer’s block has never been worse.
The end of summer has always been a fragile time for me to navigate. There’s something unsettling about watching a season built around relaxation give way to responsibility in the form of school, schedules, and deadlines. Then there is my birthday in September, which brings its own slew of existentialism. Another year has passed. Another year is beginning. Somehow, I am expected to know what to make of that.
Lately, I have felt overwhelmed, uninspired, and horribly neurotic. I don’t know what it is about this particular stretch of the year that makes me so introspective, but I have become increasingly disconnected from my own life. I start thinking too much about where I am supposed to be, who I am supposed to be, and whether I am doing enough to become that person.
[Insert Witty Headline]
(If you were hoping for a clever headline, I regret to inform you I used up my cleverness elsewhere today. But I digress.)Â
Two of my closest friends happen to share their birthdays within the same week as I, and every year they ask what I’m doing for mine so that we can somewhat coordinate our plans. Usually, this is something I look forward to. This time, though, I couldn’t think of a single desire for what’s supposed to be a special day, and the question of “what are you doing for your birthday” internalized as “what are you doing with your life?”
My crappy attitude and apathy started to annoy me almost as much as the things I was apathetic about. I knew constantly thinking about myself was only making me feel worse, but I didn’t know how to explain any of that to my friends. More than that, I didn’t really know how to explain it to myself or where to go from there.
I used to be an avid letter writer, especially around the holidays. I loved finding the exact combination of words that could tell someone what they meant to me. Lately, I have felt strangely at a loss for them. Even as someone who writes as a passion, or at least tries to, I’ve found myself staring at the blank page with the same static in my head that follows me everywhere else.
I felt guilty that I couldn’t find the words for two people who mean so much to me.
So I moved forward the only way I knew how: with a hook and some yarn.
Groannn here she goes…
…Indeed I am.
I started crocheting gifts for them.
[Another Headline]
The gifts were specifically tailored to each of them, which meant that making them required me to think about them in a way I hadn’t been able to think about myself. What would they actually use? What would they like? What reminded me of them? What could I make that felt uniquely like them?
And near stitch one thousand and thirty seven, I shifted.
Crocheting gave me somewhere to put all the thoughts I couldn’t seem to organize. As I worked, I would inevitably start thinking about our history together. I would remember who we were when we met, the things we used to care about, the phases we’ve gone through, the versions of ourselves we’ve outgrown.
There is something grounding about watching a friendship change over time. We rarely get to see the full extent of our own evolution because we are too busy living through it. But knowing someone for years means having a witness to all of those versions of yourself and bearing witness to theirs. They remember people you were before you even realized you were someone new.
Making these gifts reminded me of how much both my friends and I have changed, and how strange and wonderful it is that we’ve been there for so many of each other’s past lives.
[Oh Look, Another Headline]
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I have spent most of my life priding myself on my grip on the English language. Words have always been my preferred way of understanding things. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m angry. I write when I don’t understand something. When I can’t find the words, I usually keep searching until I do.
But lately, I haven’t had them.
Crochet felt like another language.
Every row slowly became something tangible. Hours that I might have otherwise disappeared into my phone or my own head became a scarf and wrist rest for my perpetually frigid and chronically overworked ladies. I could look at these and say, I made this. I thought about this person. I remembered this moment. I could think… in a straight line. That hasn’t been the case for a while!?
It didn’t fix the things I had been feeling, obviously. The static in my brain didn’t just suddenly cease. I didn’t emerge from the experience with a five-step plan for becoming a happier, more organized, or more fulfilled person.
But I did find a way to move through the static.
Maybe that is what has mattered most. I hope this doesn’t come off too melodramatic, but I started crocheting because I didn’t know what else to do, and somewhere along the stitches, I remembered that caring (about anything really) doesn’t always have to mean having it figured out.
Sometimes it can look like lying on the floor with a ball of yarn.
Sometimes it can look like remembering who you were with someone, and realizing how lucky you are that you are both still there.
I’m beginning to understand that not having the words doesn’t mean I have nothing to say.
I still don’t have all of them, and I’m not sure when they’ll come back.
I still don’t know how to close this, if I’m being honest. Even getting these words down took more out of me than I expected, but they’re the only ones I feel compelled to express at the moment, so write them I must. The static in my head hasn’t fully cleared, and September hasn’t gotten any less strange. But I’ve spent my whole life drawing confidence from being someone who’s good with words. Maybe this year, I’m just someone who got good with her hands instead. And maybe that’s not a loss. Maybe it’s just a different way of saying I’m still here and I still care, even when I can’t find the words to prove it.
Now to conjure up next week’s article…