A Dim Spark

It only took one step to reach my first big obstacle. 

Last month, after a difficult vacation, my relationship came to a close. In the wake of a breakup, some discover a volcano of pure motivation surging from within them, condensed from years of inaction and discontent, set to erupt and pollute their hurt with thick smoke. They go to the gym, dive into hobbies, or purchase a boarding pass and escape overseas. Unfortunately, my favorite activity isn’t much of a distraction, as it requires that I sit alone for long stretches, cut myself open, and combat my emotions face-to-face.

It’s been difficult. Every morning, I sit down to write, and attempt to break my stampede of feral thoughts into bridled speech. I’ve lassoed my thrashing head, wrestled, grappled, and smothered it, all in an effort to adjourn the tantrum. But even with the ample sum of energy I’ve put out, I can’t seem to secure a firm grip on the reins. I’ve been bucked off, hurled into the mud, and abandoned to suffer ruptured bones under deep-seated bruises. In these times, writing should be a catalyst for ambition, but instead, it has snuffed out my blaze to a tepid cinder, dwindling my drive to the stopping power of a cold, impotent dud.

My issues don’t spring from a lack of volume, but clarity. Since my first post, I’ve written for about one hundred hours and some thirty five-thousand words. But as I re-read them, not a single page or paragraph is accurate to my true feelings, leaving me to question and ferment in my bereavement. In two months, it feels like all I’ve done is translate dyslexic ideas into an unrecognizable language, sifting through smog, praying to God, the universe, or whatever else is mysterious to intervene, and strike down a missile sufficient to ignite my fuse.

For a moment, as I was sparring to solve this impasse, I started to sense a familiar sting—failure, anxiety, and mediocrity—feelings that linger on the threshold to an astute black hole; one where, just a few years before, I had been naively lured into. During that time, I sank far below rock-bottom, to a place where my fire was completely extinguished, diminished to ashes too blighted to smolder. I feared that if I didn’t figure it out, I would begin to backslide, obliged to acquiesce to the pressure of its gravitational pull.  

Back then, I was bound to attend a nightly routine: the submersion of my head into a bottomless cocktail of drugs and depression. After I realized I had a problem, and tried to exit, I then became an eyewitness to the pure scorch of hellfire. For a few weeks, I was gridlocked in bed, disabled from withdrawals. I can only describe it like clambering up cascading quicksand, unable to establish a foothold as my arms seized, all while inhaling a dense nimbus of glass vapor. 

Having escaped on scant fumes, I’m mindful to allow a simple block to anchor me back down to the crater. Even so, in moments like these, when I’ve been most vulnerable, temptation is sly to tap me on the shoulder and whisper salacious lies into my pliable ears—that I take the easy route, buy some pills, and flee.

I was a step away from accepting, but I gouged out my eyes and refused to bow. I continued to show up to write, albeit nauseous from my exposed innards, and sewed myself back together without the help of a numbing agent. Even though I’ve had a hard go at it, I never threw in the towel, and for that, I am thankful, as it provided a flicker of vigor, a miniscule dose of stamina, the bare minimum to continue.

Sometimes, all you need is a microscopic flash of heat to nudge you forward. I knew there must have been something pure among the mess that I could refine into a polished product, so I filtered through thousands of my mangled sentences and straggled words to discover what it was. After much trial and error, and swarming self-loathing, I’ve found a few that have resolved my flame to swallow a morsel of clean air—alighting what I didn’t know I needed: a mirror to introspect, and extended time to convalesce.

Last week, I turned 29. I have a birthday tradition: I engrave an annual list of experiences onto paper, both the highs and the lows, of my previous years. It began as a good habit to ensure progress, but over time, due to obvious stains, had been swept aside to furnish a vacancy for dormancy.

Two years ago, at my lowest point, I was stifled by plenty, and I decided that I had had enough. I planted my boots into the mud, elevated my loaded knees, climbed out, and wrote it all down. And now, this list, once regarded as a window to mourning, has been fashioned into a bulletin board of accomplishments, endorsed by tallies of triumph. As I read them, I can’t help but feel satisfaction, as it’s striking to learn how much an adult human can change in such a short span. 

At that time, I was five figures in debt, choking in a vortex of newfound sobriety blended with age-old anxiety, uncertain of my place or purpose, and oblivious to my willpower to prevail.

Since then, I retired my habitual drug use cold-turkey. I sold or donated 95% of my possessions. I scrounged and salvaged every penny I could find to atone the creditors, and have made full amends. I learned how to create websites, painted, rode horses, and played connect-the-dots with stars. I strangled my dependence on media—video games, TV shows, and social browsing—in order to place myself into a habitat of unhindered creation, rather than a quagmire of blind consumption.

It worked. After parting ways with the inconsequential things in my life, I welcomed the essentials back in: my love for writing, my zeal to explore, and the power to let go. I taught myself patience, how to breathe and rest, and lengthened my attention span exponentially. Most importantly, I liberated myself by emphasizing the crucial: relationships, passion, and merit, by bidding adieu to the excess: stress, inertia, and regret.

Now, after reading all of these back to myself, I think I am beginning to believe my own voice. If I was able to kickstart my dim spark in my pitch-black chasm, then I am whole to stoke it here, in broad daylight, using these words as the prod—I refuse to quit. 

If I’ve learned one thing across my few decades, It’s that I’m here to make the most of the rest, however many still remain. I can’t do it by staying idle, or using accelerants, or waiting for a foreign source to combust my internal engine. What I want, more than anything, is to be a furnace that will not be quenched, so these words must become my fuel that cannot be parched. 

Now, I’m not the most qualified to lecture about compounding interest, but from my own experience, I can profess that the bad things in my life—my blunders, the conflict, and the decline—have compacted, matured, and have finally delivered upon their promised return. I’m a better and stronger person, more grounded, not easily choked out by a simple breeze. It required an immeasurable amount of effort that I can’t even begin to recount, but it’s taught me what’s most important: that I improve, progress, do what I love, and use what I’ve learned to help others propel from their dull embers.

However, this ambition is not straightforward. In order to catch this flame, and sustain my momentum, I need to banish everything else that suffocates the ignition—inhibitions, roadblocks, and distractions—all the things that emerge from my own insecurities and lack of self-control. These hindrances are erected by our own shortcomings, and seem impregnable without proper knowledge of their schematics; but I know them intimately. I’ve learned that the best way to scale them is to diagnose my faults, make them obvious, and by doing so, they will be inclined to wane.

I’ve lived in constant fear of what people think of me, and I fear my potential even more. I overthink every possible outcome to basic tasks, mixing inaction and paralysis. I’ve never worked hard at anything in my life, yet expect my work to be perfect. My feet hold a bias toward shortcuts, and I have permitted mistakes to fester my growing pains. 

This changes now. 

When you establish something meaningful, it cannot be postponed. Writing needs to become my direct priority, as it necessitates that I employ full focus and endurance to entrench a steadfast routine. Upholding my health and mindset is vital; being cognizant of what I allow into my body, in addition to persistent exercise and consistent sleep, as these will ensure I’m in the best position to stand determined, lest I risk blowing this white-hot detonation to muffled exhaustion.

But if I can do this—and I know I can—then my wellspring, my pure source of motivation, will never run dry. It will bolster me when I stall, saturate me when I’m ahead, and thrust me forward when I don’t think I can advance; and I need it, because after everything I’ve seen, I can’t allow an inch to budge my return.  

I’m miserable when I buckle in the presence of invisible hurdles. I’m dissatisfied when I withhold the effort I know I can contribute. I’m uncomfortable abating in my cozy bedroom, when people are out there, conflagrating, and forging the lives they envision.

The life I imagine—one of true virtue, abounding fulfillment, and overflowing joy—is wholly earned, not freely given.

 I can’t simply turn a dial and feed my fire to a satiated inferno; it’s a light and faithful press on the pedal. I will still be the same Sam, subject to the tendencies, insecurities, and anxieties my brain has been hard-wired to perform. But from now on, I’m going to stand firm, acknowledge my weaknesses, and concede to the torch to guide me through them. When the inevitable difficulties flare out, I choose to dive head-first into the flame, rather than anticipate the burn. 

 29 seems a ripe and splendid age to kindle.