I didn’t know it, but I was in the throes of postpartum depression. Unaware, I blamed all the things on my “to do” list (raise child, nurse child, shop, work, and write yet another management paper), as the reason for my deep unhappiness. I found myself with a desperate need to release some of the darkness, and I turned to poetry.
Yet, in all honesty, I was turning back to poetry. I had journaled and written poems throughout life, and my undergraduate degree was in English. But it seemed as if it took about ten years for everything I had learned to sink in, as poetry frustrated yet simultaneously called to me. In short, writing and reading poetry saved me from a more dangerous darkness than I was already wallowing in.
For those reasons, I have not only made being creative a part of my daily life, I’m also raising children who see and experience the value of such, along with supporting my spouse when he sits down to make jewelry. I know that without my creative outlet I would not be as well-adjusted or able to deal with the many growth-prompting curveballs life throws, quite often, at me (read: all of us).
"In short, writing and reading poetry saved me..."
An Everyday Writer: A Reflection
Rosemary Royston
Before I realized the necessity of creativity and its role in my life, I thought being creative was a luxury, something I could do occasionally. I was not self-aware; I failed to understand that my creative outlet, specifically writing, was a necessity. My awakening came about as many do – through a time of crisis.
Growing up an introvert, the frequent moves of my family were painful ones. I immersed myself in the outdoors, books, and dolls -- places and things that I could interact with solo. What I see now, but never named then, is that these were creative endeavors. Reading fed my imagination, while role playing and character development happened with dolls. Outdoors fed my spiritual nature, and in its beauty my creativity (both then and now) was allowed to rise to the surface.
But when I reached my early 30s, I no longer played with dolls, I rarely had time to read for pleasure, and while I’d lived in the mountains for many years, I did not interact with the outdoors enough. I also had my second child, was deep into a graduate program, and holding down a full-time job. My creative life: zilch. My mental health: ditto.
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