Hemingway killed himself. So did Sylvia Plath. And Virginia Woolf.
The saying goes that misery leads to masterpieces. And I suppose so, sometimes. I like Ernest Hemingway. And Virginia Woolf. Although I could do without Ms. Plath. Sorry Sylvia.
It would be nice to romanticize the things I go through and say that they spur my creativity into a flurry, from which bursts forth something brilliant to share with the world. But the truth is that depression and hard times often turn my mental faucet off completely. Which is pretty evident if I look at this blog, as I haven't written anything in over a month during my latest hiatus.
I've been going through a lot of stuff lately both health wise and with friends, and also with my job, and I've had some really low moments. There have been occasions (just a few) where I've thought about my writing and why I'm not doing it. And I've decided that I'm just too depressed to do it right now.
Depressed. I admit it. It's hard to even write that word and it's so taboo. But I admit it. I've been depressed for over two years, which has coincided with both physical ailments and a severe lack of fulfillment in my daily work. How can I write when I feel like that?
This morning everything slid further south when I had a rather sudden change in my employment status. This was followed by a lot of crying and a bit of yelling at my poor husband (I'm sorry, babe, for making you a punching bag lately), and I fell into another deep hole for a while. A black one, with slimy walls and a musty smell. I slid all the way down to the bottom and crumbled into a heap. Which was distressing, because I'd only just emerged a few hours prior, determined to have a better day.
And yet here I am. Somehow I climbed back up the slime and I'm writing something. Maybe because I'm not sure what else to do.
I wonder what it is that truly makes me, or anyone, write? Some people can do it all the time. Some people sputter around like me and spit out fifty pages in two weeks, and then nothing for five months. And I guess that's ok as long as the overall progress is forward. Maybe.
I was messaging with my minister earlier this afternoon, and he's not really my minister in the traditional sense because I am currently not a member of a church. But when I was in my twenties he was my preacher every Sunday, he baptized me when I decided I wanted to do so (as a Protestant, not a Catholic), and he was there when my first marriage subsequently fell apart. His son-in-law had been friends with my ex-husband in high school so it sort of worked out well for me, because I really needed some support.
I remember ending up at his house because I had nowhere else to go, and he and his wife took me under their wings and at least put ice on the sting temporarily. I've always felt like he was a sort of father figure even though we don't talk often.
He told me today that I was wasting my talent on technical writing. That I was gifted at expressing my feelings with words. And I tell you, it was something I needed to hear. Because I don't have parents around me to pull me up by my bootstraps when I can't do it myself. To instill that confidence and direction in me that parents often do. And I do have a wonderful husband, but it's just different. Having that older person, with all of their life experience, is just an invaluable resource that I think everyone needs.
So as I try to figure out what the hell I'm going to do, I've decided to take that advice to heart. Because sometimes you look for signs when things are going horribly awry. And that, to me, was a big flashing neon one. Saying hey, you can do this. You can do something. You don't have to settle for mediocre, so don't. Keep pushing.
And I guess that's what I'll continue to do. How, I don't really know yet. But I suppose as long as I'm still alive there is something more to do. I just have to find it.
