But everybody else is doing it . . . . .

As you may or may not know, I have bouts of extreme depression and anxiety. Many authors do, I think. I'm not implying that you have to have a mental illness to be a writer (though there are The Jokes), but I do personally believe there might be a correlation between creatively-brained people and mental illness.

At any rate, I've got it, a mental illness issue.Those come with medication issues. You know how people are always talking about, "getting the right meds cocktail,? That's a real thing, a concerning thing, and it's a toughie. Mine has been, and it's not even fully fixed, yet.

As an author, this means I usually feel one of four things, depending on the effects/side effects of my current meds regime.

  1. Apathy. Everything is boring, and nothing really matters. I am the trail-off of a really good Queen song. I feel pretty much nothing. No creative spark, no joy, but no other emotions, either. It's like I know what I should feel in situations, but I have a very fluffy blanket wrapped tightly around those emotions, and that results in nada.
  2. Rage. Oh the rage. I break and throw things. I scream my throat raw. I hate my husband, or at least I think I do. (This one, thankfully, is pretty well under control right now). I might be able to right, but I'm too busy being furious and petty.
  3. Sadness. Not a little--a lot. I'm beyond my dog dying, and I hate myself, because I am so damned broken, and my poor, amazing family has to deal with the screw-up me. What choice do they have? I once convinced myself I was such an awful person that a hurricane was my fault. I cry a lot, and I feel like I should be punished.
  4. Fear. This has been the hardest one, maybe. Maybe it's tied with Sadness. Anyway, fear paralyzes you, because what if any of the bad things happen? What if ALL the bad things happen? What if you aren't good enough, and you're just delusional? You can make SO MANY excuses for yourself that really all come down to being afraid.
I fight with myself. There's this incredible part of me that knows incredible stories, and if I could just TELL THEM, everything would be okay. Only, a lot of the time--most of the time--I can't. Each page is a struggle. Good pages, great pages, not because I don't know what to write, but because of the Four Horsemen of my personal apocalypse, riding me down.

I have a page and a half of something new. My meds are close to right (for now). I'm still frightfully in love with too many commas. I'm still frightened, period.



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