Note: I wrote this a year ago. I didn’t realize it was still here, sitting in my drafts. I thought I’d go ahead and publish it, because it says really well what was going on in my head for the more than twelve months that I didn’t write a word here. -S
I haven’t been able to write for a long time.
I don’t really know why. It’s carried over to my reading too. Nothing holds my interest if it’s written on paper and bound or even in e-ink on my Kindle. The only thing that’s kept me plowing through books is my Audible account and ears greedy to hear a story be poured into my brain.
I’ve even carried my Moleskine and notebooks and nothing has come out. Everything stays in and brews or it just flies away on the wind, unwritten, undocumented.
Knowing that you’re depressed is one thing. Being able to climb back out of it is another. Watching your dishes pile up in the sink and the carpet look dirtier, clean clothes going unhung (or washed at the last minute), and your ability to write down what churns around in your head – all signs.
There were things I wanted to write about, things I’ve cared about. Things I’ve watched happen with varying levels of disgust, joy or sorrow. Wanting to write about some of the things that go on in my everyday life and not feeling like I can, like that option is even open.
Wanting to even write about something silly, like video games, because those have been prominent lately because at least they keep my brain running on more than one cylinder. But even then my pen and fingers are poised, and nothing spills out.
Thinking about somewhere where my writing will be appreciated and where I’m not told that I’m wrong in everything I do, even though I know more than likely the same people telling me so do, feels like a distant dream. I find myself thinking, “this is how people get stuck.”