Do Something

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

As you get old you realize that while you still may do great things, you’re not going to do the great things you thought you were going to do. That can be terribly defeating – or incredibly liberating.

There’s a measure of freedom in being released from dreams that held you down as life passed you by. Little stabs at relevance to elevate yourself as an individual while you risked losing touch with the small communities that, when you belong, enhance life and make it worth living. It’s natural to want to be recognized for what you do. But by whom? And why? What good does greatness among unseen masses do if those close to you feel left out of the most intimate parts of your life?

I thought, for a long time, that my writing would make me iconic. That I would stand among the greats of literature. That I would be read. For the most part I’m not. But I still write. Yes, there’s a close circle of people who read what I write, and I treasure their feedback dearly. Still, I write for the writing, the work, as a hobby, and in a way it’s the best work I do.

A hobby is something you put enormous effort into and are still bad at. For many of us, our hobbies are among the most rewarding parts of our lives. They deepen us. They fulfill us. Even as nobody but those closest to us even knows we do them. We’ll never be famous for them, which is good, because fantasizing about getting famous leads us to miss so many small things through which we can make such great impact. You may think that hobbies don’t pay, but oh they do as we soldier on, for the work and for the relevance, spiritually, deeply, real.

The mania part of manic depression throws roadblocks before this enlightenment. Those with bipolar disorder can be filled with grandiosity, charisma, and delusions. We may be competent at what matters: family, faith, community, good works, but all too often we miss grace as we pursue some greater reward that never comes or, if it does come, often disappoints.

With age we can relent on our attachment to being the best, and rest in our state of plain old OK.  As long as we keep trying, keep doing the work, we’re good enough. This comfortable state can go beyond hobbies and embrace slightly altered goals. Earlier this year I applied for a job. I really wanted it. They said the decision came down to me and one other person and the company chose her. A few months later they called back and said another job had opened and if I was still interested they’d have me this time. I took the job and have the good fortune to work next to the woman who got the job ahead of me.

I’ve always been successful at work and, infused with the worst of bipolar disorder, you just couldn’t tell me what to do. I was better than you. I was smarter. What I actually was was uncoachable.  I suffered from the elite misunderstanding that confuses intelligence and competence as I wondered why I didn’t get the recognition I thought I deserved. Well, today small recognition is good enough, as long as I put in the effort and try my best. The woman next to me at work, barely as new at the job as I am, reinforces this message every day. Because she’s very good at what she does. Better than me. And I learn something new from her almost every day.

Learning something new every day sure beats being the best, because you can still move up and always reap greater rewards for your effort.  Even if you never get the trophy or the biggest commission check. I’ve always taught that the work exceeds the reward. The work is the best therapy for mental illness. To deprive a person with mental illness the dignity of a job, or even a hobby, is to hold them down, entrap them in nothing but disease, take away their reason. Both their reason to live and their reasoning mind.

So get a hobby. Begin there. And work at whatever you can do to keep some money coming in and give you a chance at independence. Oddly, this will endear you to those who help you the most, as you get up and build something and carry as much of your own weight as you can.

Society doesn’t expect much from those of us with mental illness. It cheats us of our chance at true responsibility. But work, whether a hobby or a job, can counter that prejudice. To just put in the effort is to truly live. Whatever the result you find it will beat the pants off doing nothing, for dreams turn into nightmares when years later you look back and admit you really did nothing to make them real. And wasted all that time.

So be brave. Stop chasing windmills and get to work. Be bad at something and stick with it. We’ll all be better for it. And you will be iconic.