Anxious Creative

Written by Michelle Barker

In my humble opinion, art is anything that moves you—that makes you think, that makes you hurt, that overcomes you with a sense of the sublime, or that just shifts your perspective ever so slightly. Maybe, then, our world is more populated by artists than we might have originally thought.

I vividly remember sitting in the audience of a stage production I’d written in my final year of university. The piece was one I’d written for my older sister about the loss of her son to a genetic disorder. As I sat with my family and watched my words being presented by a stunning ensemble made up of my classmates, I felt an emotion I couldn’t explain: anger. I could feel the people around me in the audience crying, having their own personal, emotional responses to what was unfolding in front of them, having their own reactions to our story. I could feel their heartbeats synching up during the shared experience. And all I could think was, this isn’t yours. You have no right to these feelings, because they’re ours, they’re mine. I wanted to collect my stolen words into my arms and run away with them. ‍

I’ve had anxiety for longer than I’ve been equipped with the words to describe my anxiety. Recently, a psychotherapist had me do a routine, baseline assessment to establish where I landed on the sliding scale of several areas of mental health: depression, self-worth, anxiety, etc. Her revelation that I scored “off the charts” in the area of anxiety was an unwelcome non-surprise (“Well,” I’d said in response, “go me.”, which she had found neither funny nor worth acknowledging.). ‍

“Generalized Anxiety”, she had speculated. It was probably what made me race home as a child to start doing my homework at the kitchen table before I’d even taken my coat off. It could be what makes me check my work email several times an hour while I‘m sitting at home on the weekend. It might be the reason I assume people are furious with me if they respond to my text messages with slightly different punctuation than they normally use. It may even explain the intrusive thoughts that keep me awake at two or three in the morning. It was a pretty good explanation for the behaviours that I always thought made me a bit… different from most of the people in my inner circle.

I’d spent years chalking a lot of my “different” behaviours up to the part of my identity I classified as “creative.” The part of me that liked to stay home and read Bradbury, Shakespeare, and Tolkien while my friends were at the club was creative. The part of me that couldn’t resist regurgitating details of Brecht’s creation of epic theatre to the chagrin of my non-theatrical friends was creative. The part of me that would get deeply offended when my friends giggled during Act 1, Scene 2 of a high-fashion production of Richard III? Creative. Despite my self assessment of creativity, I simply could not, in good conscience, label myself an artist. I wouldn’t dare; after all, I hadn’t earned that title, had I?

It’s a familiar, toxic, and pervasive thought in the world of the arts: who can say that they’ve earned the title of artist? The published author? The theatre artist who’s received a Dora nomination? The painter who exclusively pays their bills by selling their work? When evaluating someone who displays creative qualities, what is on the checklist of criteria that allows us to differentiate between a creative person and an artist? The idea is enough to drive a recent graduate from a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Theatre program (honours, thank you) wild. I completed a degree in Theatre and a certificate in Publishing and the idea of calling myself qualified in any artistic area is still laughable to me. The idea of claiming that title, truthfully—shockingly—gives me a lot of anxiety.

And so we arrive back at what was eventually confirmed to be my diagnosis. What changed for me when I realized I’d been living with an anxiety disorder? What identity-altering revelations did this diagnosis usher in? To be honest, my answer hovers on the scale somewhere between “I don’t know” and “nothing”. I still consider myself pretty new to this and there’s a lot to understand and unpack with any mental health diagnosis. I had what I deemed to be a shameful thought months after my old psychotherapist first brought up Generalized Anxiety Disorder, a thought that such a diagnosis might neatly place me in the mold of what the world perceives the tortured artist to be—see anyone from Van Gogh to Taylor Swift for reference.

How thrilling.

After that production in my senior year, I shifted gears. I stopped writing and began working as a stage manager on various theatre productions in Toronto. I spent no time analyzing that decision, but it was a comfortable choice that allowed me to work quietly in the background, pouring energy and effort into seeing other people’s visions realized—A noble goal. I could politely and reasonably opt out of any major creative decision-making and scratch a theatrical itch while seated safely in the—quite literal—shadows. Stage managers are creative masterminds and the very best of them could run the world with ease and mind boggling efficacy. It's a hard job and I have a ton of respect for anyone who undertakes it.

I only lasted one year.

I can only speak to my personal experience, but I would hypothesize that the area in which a creative person is artistically gifted will follow them. It will hunt them through every season and every terrain of life. This was, at least, the case for me. By my late twenties, I had become self aware enough to recognize two things: 1, I wanted desperately to have a “quiet” passion, and 2, I was never going to be able to not write. How frustratingly contradictory. I wanted to have an inalienable purpose, a definitive ambition... but I most certainly did not want it to draw attention to me. I didn’t want people to be able to attribute a specific work, a specific ideology, or a specific accomplishment to me—the risk of their finding out I was a fraud felt far too high.

And yet. Dreams of stories would wake me up at night, dreams that would make me toss, turn, and itch until I opened a notebook and got the idea down. Obsessions with dramatic works would envelope me, compelling me to watch a recording of a production over and over until I understood every beat and every intention. I’d feel sick thinking about opportunities for further learning that wouldn’t dissipate until I’d signed up for another editing course or another autobiographical writing class. It was almost as though the creativity was in my genetic make-up.

In March of last year, we found ourselves thrust into the trauma and uncertainty of a global pandemic. Theatres closed. Filming halted. Readings moved to a virtual landscape. For a couple of months, I languished in the despair and stasis of not knowing when I’d be able to be in the same space as other people again, experiencing together and being inspired. The sadness made me sick to my stomach and I wasn’t even working in a creative field at the time. It made my heart ache for the brave artists who were now sinking under the weight of the financial implications of the pandemic. Financial strains I didn’t feel because I’d never considered myself brave enough to try to be an artist. This was a new kind of anxiety.

The guilt, the despair, the longing, the emptiness all felt like too much until I forced my eyes open and caught glimpses of creativity sparking and catching all around: New York actors singing on the steps in Times Square, theatre companies releasing mass amounts of archival footage for free, artists creating within their homes and sharing through online platforms. Even against the most devastating of odds, creatives can’t not create. They will find new ways and they will produce, outside the societal definitions and perceptions of what art is. They will continue to pour themselves out in an effort to make the world feel again.

It was equal parts life-giving and convicting. It was a sobering realization. Art was finding a way to survive. It made me realize—and resign myself to the fact—that it would have to be the same for me, in me. I would always be an anxious creative. A reluctant creative. An introverted, conflict-averse, never-satisfied creative. I could take job after uncreative job but the creativity would stay alive in my blood and burn from the inside until I couldn’t ignore it any longer. So, I donated to some COVID Emergency Assistance funds for artists and got to writing this very article. If nothing else, I hope it holds me accountable to my own artistic identity and the unwavering creative fire inside of me that even my anxiety and a pandemic can’t quell. And do not misunderstand me: this is not about pushing yourself or myself to be productive right now while we’re at the mercy of isolation (physical and emotional) and the unknown. This is simply about the fact that, after this excruciating, terrifying, benumbing season passes, art will still exist and it will still exist in you. Maybe it will reveal itself again as only an ember, but oh, how it will grow, as only a flame of creativity can.

I can state with confidence that I now understand that my reaction on the night of my play was a manifestation of my anxiety. It was an impulse to protect something that I’d created, that I cared deeply about and it didn’t disqualify me from stepping into the title of “artist”. What seemed irrational at the time was actually perfectly logical: there’s nothing comfortable about taking the pieces that make you up and laying them out for audiences, large and small, to see—even if you don’t have an anxiety disorder. It’s not supposed to be comfortable, only necessary and urgent. Because I didn’t have the words at the time to unpack and reflect on my reaction, I bowed out. But I’ve come out the other side, better educated and better equipped to work on giving something inside of me to the world and to manage the feelings that come along with that sacrifice, and with a different understanding of what makes someone an artist. In my humble opinion, art is anything that moves you—that makes you think, that makes you hurt, that overcomes you with a sense of the sublime, or that just shifts your perspective ever so slightly. Maybe, then, our world is more populated by artists than we might have originally thought.

Have I discovered any foolproof, practical tips to help me release the anxiety of presenting pieces of myself to the world? Truthfully, not really. I see a new psychologist now. I talk through the crests of the emotional waves with trusted friends. I’ve reframed my own perception of having my words stolen into a celebration of the fact that other artists are invested in my creative process. I allow creativity into my daily life in tiny, intentional ways. And I remind myself that I’m not the only one experiencing the terror of creation as an anxious artist. I promise you that I’ll still be terrified every time I hand over my work, but I intend to press on.