Life, or something like it

[I feel that this needs a kind of trigger warning, so if you’re uncomfortable with the topic of mental illness, or it hits too close to home, you may want to skip this post.]

SAM_0498

(There’s actually a movie of the same title – a not very good movie with Angelina Jolie and the only reason to watch it is Jolie singing I can get no satisfaction – just sayin’)

I’ve been looking through my blog posts and I read other people’s blog posts and I realized: year’s half over. I’m not sure I’m sad about it, but I’m surely disappointed. In myself.

You see, I’ve been saying that life gets in the way of my writing. It’s not really untrue and yet it is not all there is to it. When I say ‘life’ I mean my problems with it. I have a tendency to put things off and that’s very unhealthy. So, for a couple of months I’ve been seeing a therapist now and she diagnosed depression and social phobia. So, I guess, this is what I’m talking about when I say, ‘life’ gets in the way.

I’m not used to being open like this, but I hate that I can’t overcome my paralysis, my sadness, all the things that keep me from writing. And I know others struggle with it as well, and I think it’s important to acknowledge these things. This is what I’m doing here.

My writing plans for this year have been ambitious and I based it on last year, because last year I did some good work. This year, however, I can’t get my stuff together. It happens (and I’m only being nonchalant about it while writing this, because my mind keeps yammering on about it daily).

What have I done: I drabbled a little in ideas. I started a half-baked story about Lizzie Borden. I started a fanfic I have now problems even thinking about. I haven’t finished any of the things I started.

Looking through my blog you can see what all I wanted to do. Nothing has been done. And that’s where my disappointment stems from.

I am aware that my mental health is – let’s say – compromised. If I had broken a finger or a hand, I wouldn’t be so hard on myself. But my mind thinks that I should be able to overcome my mental indisposition, because I’ve been able to do it in the past. It’s not that easy. I can’t say that I understand what is going on with me, and that makes it hard to tell others.

Now, this is part of my writing, too. This is a part of me, I don’t talk about it much and will probably not mention it again (unless in that coded form when I say ‘life’). I’m working on it, and I hope that I can work through it. I love to write, there are just times I’m unable to.

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