I’m hesitant to write on nights like this one. Usually I feel urged by something–heard, read, seen, thought, proposed, etc. I might not know exactly where I’m going, but I have some vague sense of what is pushing me there. The writing process is what helps me to figure out.
The writing process is what helps me figure it out.
Ok, yeah. I guess that’s why I’m writing tonight. Because I can feel the compulsion welling up inside of me, even if I really don’t know why. There’s nothing I really know I need to work out. Just this desperate feeling that writing will make me better, make me feel a little less desperate to crawl out of my own skin.
Is it weird to say that I’m worried about myself? Either way, I suppose that I am. I’ve got some classic signs of deepening depression, and I’m worried. I suppose that I am self-aware enough to know is something good; but knowing doesn’t mean I can seem to avoid or counteract them entirely.
Also, I’m really good at pretending. I should be, I spent most of my life perfecting the damn art.
Maybe that’s why I’m compelled to write. I need people to know it’s a struggle. And I don’t seem to be very good at telling them face-to-face.
It’s hard unlearning to pretend.
It might sound equally as weird to say I am also hopeful. The beauty of being human is that we are constantly changing. I’m not the same person I was the last time I battled depression. I’ve learned a lot about myself and I grew up a lot too. My circumstances are different, my faith is different, my head space is different.
And this is perhaps the first time I can remember where I’m actively taking steps to be healthy, even while knowing I’m probably on a downswing.
Writing is a part of that. Even when I finish, and I’m still not really sure what the heck I was writing about.