Crawling My Way Back to Me

I haven’t been myself lately…

Photo by Ryan Jacobson on Unsplash

I took a vacation and I stopped writing, and now I’m depressed because I haven’t been writing and feel like I don’t know how to dive back into it with both feet.

I had been on a streak of writing every day for more than a month, and to completely stop for three weeks has gotten me into a funk that is making me feel loathing toward myself because I feel like I am getting in my own way from doing what I feel like I need to do.

And I am getting in my own way.

This slump that I am in is no one’s fault but my own, and I am the only person who can get me out of it.

Just write, I tell myself.

The tale as old as time.

It’s that easy and that hard, and all that they say.

But, I am feeling depressed again for the first time in a long time.

I am getting up early, having a cup of coffee, and then going to sleep in the recliner again for hours.

I have all the free time in the world right now while Elise is spending extra time with her dad this week, and yet I just sit here like a lump and watch movies that I’ve seen before, play Words with Friends until my phone battery dies, and sometimes, I weep.

Furthermore, I kept a promise to myself that I would start tracking my calories when I got back from vacation and forgot what a drag it is, and how hard it is to stay under my allotted calories for the day when I am used to eating whatever I want, whenever I want.

But here I am anyway, writing about the most boring, mundane things in the world — not writing, depression, weight loss woes — because that’s all I have going on right now.

It’s April, and I should be doing Camp NaNoWriMo like I wanted to and said I would, but there are only 22 days left in the month and I haven’t gotten started yet.

I graduated from phlebotomy school a month ago and still haven’t gotten my shit together enough to write a resume and start applying for jobs.

My car hasn’t been registered for almost a year, and now my paranoia has me driving my mom’s car everywhere due to the FEAR.

I have to go to court next Thursday because I am being sued for a debt I cannot afford to pay.

Things are shit right now, basically, and here I am.

I’m writing about it because it’s all I know how to do.

NOT writing, even though I have nothing nice or good or inspiring or thoughtful to say today, is worse for me than just writing this.

That I feel bad for not doing the things that I have to do, that I am hurting because I am not doing the things I love to do.

“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.”
- Confucius

Slowly, one foot, one word, one post at a time, I will crawl my way back to where I was before I left for “vacation.”

I’ll keep reminding myself of the post I wrote last month:

It feels so long ago that I was that optimistic and looking forward to all the things I had to write, and here I am feeling paralyzed without a good word to say.

That’s what depression does.

That’s the hole that I have to crawl out of now to get back to me.

So, I’ll humble myself.

I’ll get down on my hands and knees the way some people do for praying, and I’ll start to crawl, to claw with bruised, unused fingers to find my way back.

And, what’s more, I’ll call bullshit on myself, because there’s no such thing as writer’s block.

I’ll be here tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, and be thankful I can’t afford another vacation for a long time… because I can’t afford what a vacation does to me, apparently.

I don’t care how long it takes me to get back into my groove, I don’t care how slow I have to move… I just know I can’t stop.