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The flood after Hurricane Harvey got into everything.
Photo: Marie D. De Jesus, Staff / Houston Chronicle

The panic attacks started when I was 5. I didn't know what they were, just that I knew I was about to die until something calmed me down. They went unchecked for a long time until I found some comfort in writing down the details of every terrifying day of trying to be a person. Writing made me feel safe when nothing else could.

One of my favorite evening rituals before Harvey was relaxing in bed with my laptop and writing a poem. So many pieces of my life felt settled and right after years of tumult. That's how I developed the daily writing habit that I'd been chasing since getting my creative writing degree.

When Harvey hit, I was in the midst of a year-long creative collaboration with artist Elaine Bradford. The idea was that she would create a sculpture and I would respond with a poem for every week of 2017. We thought it would be a good way to survive what promised to be a tumultuous year politically.

The project, called "Routine Fables," was far from my mind until Elaine pulled out a ceramic windmill from the flooded mess of our house. She held the object from my childhood, probably saw the look of sadness on my face and offered to use it in a sculpture. She also took some of the black piano keys from my ruined piano. When I saw the sculpture she made, I wrote a poem about it all: my childhood worries, my flooded instruments, my writing habit. Writing it felt like an eruption.

In the weeks that followed, I concentrated on finishing the house. When I was settled in our rental apartment, I was able to get back to "Routine Fables," but it wasn't the same as my nightly writing ritual. It felt rushed and awkward, sitting on a borrowed couch after another takeout dinner. The poems I wrote were all about the flood, but at least I wrote them. I stumbled my way back to my creativity.

Later, we would install these sculptures and poems at Lawndale Art Center. The flood sculptures are installed at 33 inches, the level the water rose to in our house, and the poems written on the wall higher and higher as the weeks move on to mirror how underwater I was feeling.

More by Sara Cress

But while my creative life was going well, work wasn't. Every few days, as the house was pieced back together — fridge installed! TV back in the living room! — I'd get a good day where I could make it to work and function like a mostly whole human being. But the rest were spent staring into space or yelling at anyone who appeared in my view. I told my boss that I didn't know who I would be when I woke up every morning. It seemed there was no point to my job if everything I had worked for could be taken away in an instant.

I will always be grateful for the tremendous amount of support I received at work. My coworkers were respectful of my emotional state and limited capacity for tasks. But a business is a business, not a charity. At a certain point, I got the sense that I was taking too long to heal, that people were getting frustrated with me.


What: Elaine Bradford and Sara Cress: "Routine Fables"

Where: Lawndale Art Center, 4912 Main Street

When: Open until Sunday, July 29, 2018



Hell, I was frustrated with me.

My annual review in March plainly mandated that it was time to rededicate myself to work. But I had nothing left to give. So, after more than seven years at a good company, I quit. It wasn't like me, but I was wrung-out, exhausted, in pain. I saw no other way out but a stroke. My managers took the news with drawn faces. No one wanted me to leave. I had been really good at my job.

I was afraid. But I also had dreams of pursuing my personal writing career, and what did I have to lose? Nothing has ever shoved me so hard as losing everything right after turning 40. The seas were begging me to reprioritize.

On my last day a couple of weeks later, I handed over my badge to my boss. He said, "Take care of poet Sara."

Editor's note: This is the third installment of an occasional series that will explore one woman's recovery in the year after Hurricane Harvey. Click to read the first and second installments.


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