Not every day is going to be a good day, and not everything you write is going to be something you love. Depression, like life, has its ebbs and flows, and writers’ block is real.
One day you can feel the pain just dripping from your fingertips onto the keyboard, and other days the words remain stuck in the far corners of your mind.
Yesterday was a bad day. I’d forgotten once again to take my meds, and despite the fact that this new medicine supposedly has a longer half-life, the strange, looping dreams and shattered-looking-glass world offered no respite until I managed to pull myself out of bed and swallow a handful of pills. And even then I remained nauseated, and my body out of sorts, for several more hours.
It helps me to write. It’s therapeutic in the sense that I am occupying my mind with things other than feeling a massive weight sitting upon my chest (the Depression) and dealing with incapacitating vertigo (the Anxiety.) It also helps in dredging up toxic memories that don’t need to be locked up inside of me anymore.
But it’s exhausting when I write the more-introspective or painful pieces. And when I’m done — even if I’m pleased with the results — I am utterly wrung out, and it feels as if I have written the very last thing that will ever spring forth from my fingertips.
But like the mythical Dragon, Ouroboros — whose turning upon itself reflects the infinite cycle of death and rebirth — your world will somehow keep turning, the words will eventually flow, and the Depression will ebb; at least while you are writing.