The Depression of a Writer

This is what depression looks like.  It's bleak and dark and full of anxiety and confusion.  I am depressed.

I am tired.  I am tired and filled with dread and my eyes won't dry out.  They are in a constant state of at the blink of an eye the tears will fall down my cheeks.  But I'm not actually crying.

This is what depression looks like.  It's bleak and dark and full of anxiety and confusion.  I hate feeling depressed.

For the past 3 years I really didn't want to believe that the medication I took was actually for my depression.  I convinced myself (and everyone else) that the pills were for the fibro pain.  That's actually funny because my pills ran out 10 days ago and it has taken a while to get a new prescription and the only thing I feel is anguish and dread.

But what I am crying about at this very moment... what has made me feel truly sad inside more than anything else is that for the first time in literally years, I not only have so many things to write about, I actually want to write them.  And that will most likely disappear tomorrow when I'm back on my meds.

I now realize that all those years I called myself a writer; all those years I wrote and wrote and wrote; all those years I not only had something to say, I needed to say them in words and I did. Because for all those years I was actually just depressed.

I wrote in order to calm or satiate my demons.  I wrote in order to spread a little light on my darkness.  And I am sad because all those years that I wrote to keep my soul breathing, I was writing because I had to, because that was my coping mechanism.  Because without my writing I probably would have died.

I want so much to write again.  I want to explore the world with words and share them with everyone.  But I am sad today because tomorrow I will probably take a pill and the words will  disappear.

In my wallet, typed up on a folded piece of paper, is my acceptance speech for Best Original Screenplay for the Academy Awards because that has been my dream ever since I can remember.  But now I feel as though it's a dream I will never attain because now I am so aware of my inability to write when I am not depressed.  And since I know I can't live my life in a shadow of darkness, I will continue to take the pills and thus stop writing.  I may never finish writing a great screenplay.

This is my reality... today.  Who knows what will be tomorrow... after I've filled my prescription.

The Life in Death

Every life ends.

My friend passed away last week in her sleep.  She was 33 years old.  She climbed into bed, shut her eyes and never opened them again.  Was it a sad day?  For her husband and daughter it was.  For all her family and friends it was.  But for her?  She has merely gone on to exist somewhere beyond our comprehension.  Our loss is our pain.

It has taken me several days to comprehend this reality which only exists as something entirely surreal in my head.

They say death is a part of life.  I say that while it may sound true, it's just another cliche.  Death is the end of life. It is the end of any suffering that may have occurred while still alive.  But it marks the beginning of the suffering for those who mourn and therefore becomes the tragedy to which we all refer it as.

I do not fear death.  I fear the inability to watch my children grow.  And feel the joy and pride a mother feels when her children mature into society contributing adults.  I don't want to miss a moment.  And while I'm quite sure I won't feel bad once I am dead, I know that as a living woman with three beautiful children, I don't want to die... yet.  I don't want to miss a moment of all the milestones in their lives.  Life is mysterious and I want to uncover the mysteries it places in my path.

So I am sad.  I am sad that my friend will never see her daughter grow up.  I am sad that her daughter will never truly know what an extraordinary mother she had.  And I am sad that someone so young and full of life has left us all alone in this world without her.

In loving memory of Rachel Swirsky z"l (1979 -- 2012)

That Which Once Was

This is not my first blog.  In fact, I've tried to start a blog about three other times in the past five years.  All to no avail.  I suppose my issue is always subject matter.  But this time, I don't care.  I'm not following an "theme" or special topic.  I'm just writing what's on my mind.  You can read it or not.  Perhaps you'll like what I have to say.  Perhaps not.

Once upon a time, I was a writer.

Sounds like a strange thing to say.  But it's not.  I wrote my first short story when I was 10 years old an won an award for best writer.  I always knew I would be a writer.  I even went to university and received a Bachelor's degree in Creative Writing.  It was always my passion.

I liked writing anything and everything and I wrote every single day of my life.  Even if it wasn't any good.  I wrote poems.  I wrote short stories.  I wrote plays and screenplays.  I wrote in a journal.  I wrote thoughts and interesting ideas for stories and plays and movies.  I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. BTW, just for the record, I've been published, as well.

I was a writer.

But then something happened.  I woke up one day and I realized that I wasn't a writer.  I couldn't even tell you when that day was.  I just remember it happening.  And I immediately thought, "if I'm not a writer, then what am I?  Who am I? And do I like this person I've become?"

It's a strange thing to ask oneself, I admit.  But those were my thoughts and they swam through my head day after day after day for many months.  Until I just realized that once upon a time, I was a writer and that's okay.

Now you'll notice that I can't say I'm not a wr... a wri... a wrrrr... I can only say that...

I was a writer. I used to be a writer.  There was a time when I identified myself as a writer.

To say that I am not a wrrrrri... wriiiii... well, I just can't do it.

So, here I am writing.  Perhaps if I write enough blogs I can call myself a writer again.  Until then, this blog is my babbling podium.  This is the place I will come to again and again, just to say what's on my mind.  It may not always be pleasant, and it may not even be interesting, but I'm happy.  And isn't that what really counts?

A Poem - Off the Top of my Head

Another Good Day?

If I were tip-toeing through the garden

And the trees were whispering in my ear

I'd stop to dance and twirl in the sunlight

And wish for fairies in the air.

I'm not such a poet that I always need to rhyme.

Sometimes I feel my heart soar with joy.

At moments I cry when the world floods around me,

And I wish for the garden of fluttery friends

To start me dancing once again.

I am merely a child

In my heart, with years of woe.

I am mature in ways 

That only He can know.

And here I am, wishing

With my coin in hand.

Must I tip-toe tomorrow

Or will moments be passed

Swimming through it all?