I’m definitely depressed. I haven’t written of word of The Redemption of Erâth: Ancients and Death in two weeks, and I spent most of today sleeping. Last week I moaned about being depressed as well, and how it luckily doesn’t seem to affect my work. This week I can’t even think of anything to write about, so I’m going to moan about being depressed all over again.
Those of you who’ve been following this blog for a while know that depression is a common theme that crops up on a fairly frequent basis. It’s one of the main literary themes running through The Redemption of Erâth. It’s something I’ve suffered from for the vast majority of my life, sinking in its teeth as a teenager and never since letting go. Counseling, therapy, many forms of medication … nothing seems to permanently help. I might feel lifted briefly here and there, and sometimes I can even get some writing done, but in the end it always comes crashing down.
The disease itself makes seeking help very difficult.
The worst part is, as any sufferer of depression knows, the disease itself makes seeking help very difficult, if not outright impossible at times. I simply cannot pick up the phone to make an appointment with my psychiatrist. I haven’t seen my therapist since before Christmas. I owe them both money I don’t have. I need to renew my prescriptions, but even the visit to the pharmacy seems daunting and overwhelming.
Incidentally, it’s very depressing to not have any money. I made $2 from my book last quarter, and that was from me buying it as a test.
It’s not that I necessarily want to feel this way, although the relief there is in giving up is certainly enticing. I’d like to write more of Ancients and Death very much. I’m only a couple thousand words away from finishing chapter ten, and then I can move back to the far more interesting stuff going on with Elven. I feel very close to a goal, but I just can’t find the willpower to reach it. I’ve spent three entire days off work doing absolutely nothing. Days I should have been writing.
I’m failing my work, and I’m failing myself. I’m failing my family, too. They rely on me to get things done, and I just can’t do it. I can’t cook. I can’t do the dishes. I can’t clean the house. I feel like a great failure, and therein lies the viciousness of depression: the more depressed I get, the worse I feel about myself, and the more depressed I get. It’s a cycle that for me only time can break, and there’s no telling how long it might last for.
Here’s to another wasted day; another wasted week, and another wasted life. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to write, but I wouldn’t bet on it.