Tag Archives: Misery

Thought of the Week: On the Cycle Goes

Tonight’s post was very difficult to write. I can say that with authority, having penned only a line of it, because life itself is becoming increasingly difficult.

Again.

It’s so frustrating, so wearisome, to be locked into a cycle that never, ever changes. Good days come, and then they go, and I’m left clueless as to how to carry on. I haven’t showered in three days; I feel dirty, useless and exhausted—an exhaustion that no amount of sleep can relieve.

The world is tainted once more.

I haven’t taken any medication in several weeks now, and I can’t tell if it ever made a difference. I know I didn’t go cold turkey this time, and that might be a contributing factor; for quite some time I’ve felt pretty upbeat (see my post from earlier this month). But now … the best word I have to describe my state of being is fragile. I just can’t tell if I’m about to take a fatal plunge into despair once more.

I’m so tired of struggling. I’m tired of paying to be healthy. I’m tired of having to remember things. I’m tired of coming home every day from work so exhausted I can’t type a single line of The Redemption of Erâth. I’m tired of pretending.

I’m losing. I can feel it, feel the energy whispering away like air from collapsing lungs. The release of History of Erâth, NaNoWriMo, editing Exile … it’s rapidly becoming meaningless—vapid, pointless exercises in futility. Nobody wants to read what I’ve written. Nobody cares.

Why am I here? What’s compelling me to write tonight at all? Do I owe you words? A laughable attempt at a weekly post, when I didn’t post last week, and I probably won’t post next week. This blog is a joke, and so am I.

On the cycle goes. I’ll drown, and I’ll resurface later. I’ll drown again. Always the same, always the pain of knowing that nothing lasts. I might go silent for the rest of the year. I might manage my 50,000 words in November.

I might never write again.

The world is tainted once more. Meaning drops from life like rotten fruit from dying trees. Why wake up? Why go to work? Why write, or cook dinner?

Empty, useless words. Perhaps I can smother myself in the minutiae of tiny details, stop myself from thinking, from asking why. You can’t ask why, you just can’t.

Because there isn’t an answer. There are only fools.

Thought of the Week: Failing Progress

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.

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Thought of the Week: Depression and Work

I apologize for the delay in this week’s post (it should have been out on Monday). Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I was going to get around to it at all; I’ve been visited by the black dog again, and it’s preventing me from getting much done.

In case you didn’t know, I have a day job. I wish I could say writing was a full-time occupation for me, but with $2.00 in sales from The Redemption of Erâth last quarter it’s hardly proving lucrative at the moment (come on, peeps—why aren’t you buying it?). I work shifts, which means a lot of weekends and late nights, and this sometimes gets in the way of blogging, too. I like to try and write Monday’s post sometime on Saturday or Sunday, but I never got around to it this week.

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