I'm anxious. I just got up to open the door and look outside. I'm pacing around the apartment. Can't play WoW. Can't play Fable. Can't watch tv. Can't read Nora Roberts, and dammit if Blood Brothers isn't a compelling read. But none of it's sticking. Ten minutes here, ten minutes there, too much thinking. I'm feeling that itching beneath the skin, the one you can't scratch, the one that makes you jittery, like you've had too much caffeine. I feel like there's something I'm missing. I know there's something I'm not doing. I'm not writing. I should be writing. I have the first two scenes clear as day in my head, have had them since last week, and they're not down on paper yet. What's the problem? Why the fear? Who cares if they come out good or bad. What's the harm in writing them. But I'm not. And I know I should be. And so I'm caged, between want and fear.
About Me
- Inertia
- This is my blog. I thought about saying, "This is my bipolar blog," but I still feel like a pretender to that throne. If it is bipolar, it's Bipolar II, heavy on the depression, light on the hypomania. It also could merely be chronic major depression. As if major depression is something you could ever say "merely" about.
I went into the hospital on March 13th, 2008 for depression and suicidal ideation. It was my first hospitalization. I'm starting this blog three months later, to turn things over, report things, give them some sort of reality beyond simply being in my head. Because I don't trust my head anymore.
I'm a 32-year-old writer with one marriage behind me and the unwavering support of my boyfriend, Jb. I've struggled with this particular depressive episode since June 2007. The hospitalization was the most humbling yet freeing experience of my life. I've lost my job, my sense of security, and my sense of self. But I've gained a diagnosis, a place to begin again, and the time to do so.
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