If you read this blog even semi regularly, then you know I’ve been in a neverending battle with a seasonal depression that won’t lift and so many med changes and reactions, I’m barely coherent. I muddle through but I’m fairly anhedonic and overwhelmed.
Add to this that I am a writer- fiction, novel length, type things and when writer’s block and a bad mental state hit simultaneously..Bad juju all around. Writing is my outlet. Blogging is mental spewage. I NEED my fiction, my world to escape to where my mental illness can’t taint me. Truth be told, though, sometimes it does taint my writing. My mental state dictates where my stories go, whether my characters remain consistent or moody, if I even follow my own loose plan of where I wanted to take it.
I reread my work and I can tell you exactly where I was in my mood cycle or anxiety cycle. If I am manic, that, too shows in my writing. It’s like torture to have the one thing I actually don’t suck at affected by my imbalances.
For weeks now I have bemoaned in this blog my frustration at the depression and anxiety, as well as the cursed writer’s block. I know if I could just lose myself in a world not my own, I might actually come out of the depression a little or if nothing else, be distracted enough not to wallow in my current mental health misery. I’ve tried. I sit down, stare at the blank page, taunted by that blinking cursor. It’s the same novel I started back in 2007 and I just keep writing hundreds of pages, blocking, starting over. My last long streak was in 2013, I wrote for eight straight months. Coincidentally, my doctor took away my anti depressant as the seasonal kicked in and I was on dual mood stabilizers. I fell apart. Yet my writing was like a virus flowing through my body and it just flowed. I want to, NEED to, finish this book. THIS one. Especially now that the Focalin is sort of helping me stay on track.
I sat down last night and faced the blank page. And nothing. Just more anger and frustration. So I said fuck it, laid down, tried to watch a crime documentary. But my mind wouldn’t slow down. I was like a woman possessed. I desperately needed to write. It hit me…Why not abandon the story consuming me and revisit an old one? It seemed pretty pointless.
By midnight, without really trying, I’d hammered out 15 pages. I don’t know if it’s drivel. I just let it flow until I hit a stopping point I was comfortable with. I will reread it today and go from there. The point is…FIFTEEN FREAKING PAGES. I thought about keeping it a short story and posting it in my blog in installments. But then I realized…Even while writing it with that in mind…I’m censoring myself. Trying not to be offensive when in fact, my writing is very offensive, laden with swearing and sex and all the dark stuff people relegate to the dregs of society. That’s who I am, that’s what I write. By trying to tame it down for public consumption I’ve betraying myself and it makes me feel shitty. I need to be true to myself.
So maybe not this blog. Maybe never any blog. I don’t know.
Needless to say, I feel pretty good today. Not great as in mood, just…like I kicked down a brick wall. Creativity is fickle though. It may stick, it may not. I accomplished something. And not even my warped mental illness riddled mind could stop me, for once.
It’s cause for hope. I may just write for me. I don’t need accolades. I don’t particularly want attention. I just love to write. This blog was more of a way to find a support system for my mental health battle, not seeking attention. I write for the love of writing. And maybe that’s as it should be. Maybe that part of myself is just for me and by sharing it, I’d be allowing my soft underbelly to be open to attack. Perhaps I’m not that brave.
I am always evolving. Who knows what is possible.