I've considered myself a writer since about 5th grade. I wouldn't even be embarrased to show someone some things I wrote at that age. I think as a 5th grader I was more skilled than some people currently published, but I'm not sure I am a writer now.
When I sit down to write now, everything I write is flat. I end up feeling like this:
...and yes, this is a fairly accurate depiction of my living room, except the parakeet has passed on, and his cage is sadly empty.
Is this the end result of too much academia and an emphasis in rhetoric and composition? I hope not because writing has always been a major stabilizing force in my life. Writing is empowering. It's something a shy person like me can do to make a difference. But I can't make a difference with writing that no one wants to read.
Or perhaps my struggle with writing has nothing to do with my academic endeavors. Perhaps it is yet another barrier I am struggling against with the resurgence of symptoms of depression. I've been managing this disease for 10 years (it was unmanaged before that). Working out, eating right, doing productive things all keep me in line. I am firmly against medication.
In graduate school, I let myself be too busy to maintain my routine, and it started sneaking back up on me last November and has been hitting me in waves ever since. When I get depressed, I become a self-deprecating, nervous person. I can't sleep at night, but I want to curl up in bed all day. I can't eat. I'm less efficient at work. I develop paranoia that nobody likes me, even if we're supposedly friends.
This resurgence had a major impact on my school work and my relationships last year, and with my impending joblessness, it's hitting me as hard as it's ever hit me before. I am physically sickened by it right now, so much so that I've been working from my parents house because the idea of returning to that city I hate during the week my boss is on vacation and I would be alone in the office gave me a panick attack. I couldn't get out of bed or eat.
It's always bothered me to be so smart and capable and to find myself so unreasonably limited by this irrational disease. I've got to start doing something worthwhile like writing to overcome it. I need to really focus on being a doer--work out, write, cook, crochet.
So I've got to keep telling myself that I am a writer. I made it through grad school with a 4.0, and I passed my defense with distinction. I can do amazing things despite this disease, even when it's trying its damnedest to pull me under. I can get a job now because I am incredibly quick to learn new things, and I am a skilled writer with a good sense of how to communicate with diverse perspectives.
Next, perhaps I will post a story. I've got this crazy fantasy in my head of a whole new sort of presidential candidate. Perhaps I will follow the presidential elections with my imaginary candidate participating in debates. More to come.
