… am I depressed because I really am or am I hiding behind my depression as a means of avoiding-of escaping-from having to deal with my own life and the numerous problems that exist therein?
I’ve been getting threats about writing from a certain someone who wants me to write while they themselves are supposed to be neck deep in working on a book with someone else. Yes, I’m being dragged into being an editor. The horror… or something. Not that I don’t like to write (I have a rather innate talent for it), I just haven’t wanted to for years and having a metaphorical gun put to my head doesn’t seem like the most useful way to motivate me. I could be wrong of course.
I wouldn’t even know where to begin even if I wanted to. When I was younger I was flush with ideas. The first thing I would think about when I got up was writing and the last thing I thought about before going to bed (and sometimes even after) was writing. Then things changed. I changed. Now I think about writing so rarely it’s almost impossible for me to believe how much time and effort I once put into it.
When I was in high school I would sharpen a dozen or two pencils before class, fill up a binder with college ruled paper, and then spend as much time as possible just writing. Before school, between classes, at lunch, after school. My English teacher once told me that he was certain I was going to be a published author by the time I was 25. Twenty plus years later and I don’t even know who that person, the me who wrote so much that I developed a permanent dent in the side of my finger from the pencil pressing against it, was.
I don’t know why I wrote so much. I’m not sure what I was trying to achieve. Maybe nothing. Or maybe I was trying to drown out the silence between moments of sanity where bad thoughts happen and bad things are anchored.
Maybe I just liked it?
I miss just liking things.