Finding My Enoughness

Creating under capitalism

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Last night I was rewriting my CV in order to apply for an editorial position at a literary magazine.

Several writers had sent me their CVs so I could have a clear idea of what the CV is meant to be. I’ve always been intimidated by these formal genres, mostly because I didn’t grow up in an environment where anyone I knew had ever written a CV, but also because I have always had trouble adhering to particular genre expectations. I want to do things my own way.

But a CV and resume and cover letter— these things are essential for navigating the world as an artist and writer.

As I read through the CVs, my heart broke a little bit. All of the writers, none of whom are that much older than I am, had lists of publications over a page long, plus their published books. I chastised myself for focusing more on pitching stories to non-literary publications. Why haven’t I been writing short pieces this entire time and submitting them all over the place?

I forgot about my forthcoming book, and I also forgot about the reasoning behind my lack of literary publications.

Literary publications rarely pay.

Because I need money to support myself, I’ve had to focus on writing in ways that also create some sort of income.

Because I need money to support myself, I’ve had to turn down acceptances to prestigious residencies.

Because I need money to support myself, I have to prioritize my time and writing in a way that inhibits literary publications.

But also: because I grew up poor, I often live inside a space of scarcity, always worried about if I’m going to have enough money. Because I have CPTSD, I am always worried about impending catastrophe.

Because of this, I hold myself tightly closed and, even when it’s safe, I fold myself into an arrow aimed only at what can give me the quickest financial payoff.

Clearly this isn’t fully true, because I’m a writer, and I have chosen a profession known for its lack of capital gain, but it is true a lot of the time— that I am unable to feel into my safety.

a sunset walk last night.

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I can spend a lot of time feeling sorry for myself.

It’s true. My self-pity is a loop that was tripped in childhood, when I first discovered that many of my peers had things I didn’t have.

Things like fathers, clean clothes, backyards, dinners cooked in ovens instead of microwaves, help with their homework, and stable homes. I envied those kids, and the nice ones felt pity for me. I remember at one school, long long ago, one boy whispering to his friend: “Be nice to Stacy; she doesn’t have a dad.”

I felt grateful for their pity, because it felt like something close to love. I didn’t know what love felt like, because my mother was incapable of loving me and herself. Loving myself was the same as feeling sorry for myself, and when others felt sorry for me I thought that was the best I could do.

If people felt sorry for me, I thought, they wouldn’t hurt me.

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I understand now that I deserve more than pity. That we can go through terrible, terrible things and have awful lives and that still, there is beauty, always, somewhere. A little glimmer.

I also understand, or am coming to understand, that it’s my job to take care of myself. I don’t need anyone’s pity to survive. I don’t need anyone to save me as I longed to be saved when I was a child.

My need for pity, for saving, stemmed from the deeply rooted belief that I was incapable of caring for myself. I needed to be saved because I was incompetent.

That’s what I was taught to believe about myself, and I believed it.

This belief (that I needed saving) is so silly. Its absurdity comes into focus when I recall each time I ran away from home, starting when I was twelve years-old. I ran away when I was a sixth grader, looking for a life where I was not physically and emotionally abused.

Never did I think I deserved that abuse. I always wanted something better for myself.

Wanting and knowing how to get are two separate things.

I wanted better for myself, but my entire self had been formed within the relational patterns of abuse. I had learned to hide my true self away from everyone, including myself, and I watched others carefully in order to morph myself into who I thought they wanted me to be.

For years, I did this. My personality was inconsistent; always asking for assurance and approval but unwilling to be vulnerable. I hated my need for approval and rejected myself.

A loop.

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Maybe you’re asking right now: what does this have to do with creating under capitalism?

Capitalism teaches us that we are nothing if what we create isn’t good. Under capitalism, we must create many things in order to be good. Under capitalism we are taught to skim the surface of everything. Figure out the mechanics of a successful thing and replicate it until we create husks of what was once a potent, novel structure.

Capitalism teaches us that we are never enough, and that we never have enough.

In the past month, I have read so many pieces of (beautiful, eloquent) writing from people who have more than me: more status, more money, more publications, more followers. What were they writing about?

They were writing about not feeling they they were enough. Not feeling like they had enough.

I’ve written about the same.

What I’m beginning to understand (in an embodied way) is that these feelings aren’t necessarily real. They are produced by the systems we live inside us, which also live inside of us. No matter how much, it’s never enough. Not in the face of someone who has more.

There are a lot of things that can drive us towards “success.”

One of my mentors, Arthur Flowers, used to tell me that he had faith in my success because I was hungry. And it’s true. When I went to college at 32 I was very hungry, both literally and figuratively. My first year at Syracuse as an undergraduate I lived on $40 a week. I didn’t have a winter coat or good boots.

Slowly, things approved, and I got scholarships for academic performance.

For my entire college career, including my MFA, I worked around 30 hours a week as a server and nanny. It never felt like enough. I never felt like I had enough. Likely this is because I spent my money on things that made me look like I had enough. Cute boots, clothes, haircuts. Whatever.

Now I am back in school, and I could work 30 hours a week again, but my body won’t let me. I also know this: I have enough clothes and shoes and material goods. Five pairs of shoes is enough. My clothes don’t need to be new. I don’t need nice things.

Time is more important to me.

What I know now is: no matter how much I have, I can always feel like it’s not enough.

Because that feeling of this is not enough cannot be satisfied by anything external. That feeling is inside of me. The more I try to satiate my this is not enough feeling, the stronger it gets. Each new shiny thing relieves that ache of longing for just a little bit, like a shot of whiskey warms and relaxes the limbs. Like a shot of whiskey, each new thing is ephemeral. Physically, it’s still there, but its novelty wears away.

No matter how much money I may have in the future, it will never be enough if I don’t let myself feel that this right now is enough.

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In terms of writing, and creation, I translate this idea of enoughness into my writing practice.

Can I write to write? Can I create without thinking of my creations as currency? Can I accept that I am a good writer without anyone telling me I’m a good writer? Can I accept that good writing is subjective?

Can I submit my work with the understanding that rejection is not a value statement?

Can I submit to the idea that my list of publications doesn’t have anything to do with my inherent value as a human being or an artist?

Can I feel into a sense of safety and enoughness, now? Without needing to get just one more thing?

We’re never really safe. That’s the truth. There may be some catastrophe waiting around the corner. I have navigated many catastrophes. Some have obliterated me. What about these moments that aren’t catastrophes?

I am robbing myself of something beautiful if I let these moments drown in my own insecurities and fears.

Sensing into this is enough is new for me. It’s revelatory.

That I am here in these moments, when I have very little materially, shows me that abundance, that word we throw around so much, has nothing to do with anyone’s approval or my bank account. It is something I can cultivate within myself. When I do, the word abundance transforms to safety.

Even when I am unsafe and the world feels unsafe, I am safe in this moment. No one is touching me in a way that hurts. There is a part of me that no one can hurt. That is where my enoughness lives. That is where I am writing from.

Ralph Albert Blakelock (courtesy of the National Gallery)

What are you feeling into this week? Where are you scared or confident or sad or contemplative? How is your writing/creating going or not going?

Tell me in the comments.