Does Pain Equal Art?

A few years ago I read Chuck Palahniuk’s Diary and it stayed with me.  One of the main catalysts in the story is that great work is generated from an artist in pain.  As if the pain itself creates the art.  There seems to be a ring of truth to it, after all how many painters went mad?  How many writers were/are alcoholics? How many musicians were/are drug addicts? How many actors have we watched come undone by their bad relationships and plastic surgery addictions only to turn out Oscar-worthy performances?

But I never thought it applied to me. The more pain I was in, the less I could think straight, least wise write coherently.  Pain did not help me tap in to some deeper, darker side of myself; it made me want to run away from myself.  Which I suppose is how some artists break free of constraints.  For me though, writing was my way of breaking free of all my constraints, it was my way of saying what I can’t speak.  Pain only silenced that voice. 

So I’ve been fighting with myself, almost daily for the last few months, that I shouldn’t write until I feel better.  I need to put my health first, take the time to get better, as much as I can, and then focus on writing. But it’s a gamble, isn’t it? My whole life could pass me by before I feel well enough or, heaven forbid, something else could happen to my situation that could make finding the time and energy even more difficult to obtain.

I didn’t know what to do.  How could I find the balance of health and art, where both are a priority along with my marriage, my family, my friends and the bare minimum I have to devote to keeping my day job that pays the doctor’s bills?  Everything has to be in balance, and in case you don’t remember from my previous post, balance is not something that I am good at.

I honestly thought I didn’t have a choice anymore, that eventually I would feel so bad I wouldn’t be able to write anyway, so that I should give it up now and at least give myself a chance to get better.  Then I got some bad news last week, nothing horrific but not a sign of improvement, and my conviction to put the laptop aside was stronger than ever.  The problem was, when facing the pain and disappointment all I wanted to do was not hide in bed and rest, but to write – albeit, in bed.  I needed to be something other than the pain.  I needed to remind myself that I was more than a body needing to be taking care of.  I was a writer with a story to tell, or actually several stories to tell, the main one being that while the pain may slow me down, it won’t stop me.