This is forced blogging.
I am the forcer in that sentence. I am forcing myself to just type and see what comes out because the lack of writing is just so counter-intuitive and i fear it might have some adverse affect on my psyche.
I have been in a funk. A writeless funk. I haven’t worked on any of my books in progress. I haven’t even blogged. Not because i have writer’s block–as I’ve said before, I don’t suffer from writer’s block, it suffers from me. This is about mood. I don’t FEEL like it. I don’t feel like writing. Or going out. And that momentarily devolved into not feeling like showering or being awake. Classic signs of depression. I’m familiar with it, as most overtly creative people seem to be. But i refuse to let it conquer me. I just let it bang on my helmet for a few weeks.
From that point, i went into this food-as-comfort routine, where i caught myself eating frequently, and sometimes too much, so that i have bouts with acid reflux and always wonder afterward why i just kept chewing and swallowing. Was it just something mindless to do? And i have this unusual craving for sweets. Probably my body’s retarded idea of how to make me feel better. Sugar high. But I have been constantly staring into the ‘fridge and cabinets, making short trips to the grocery at 3 a.m. only to find that one thing–that one bit of consumable energy that would make me feel better. Donuts. Cake. Ice cream. Comfort foods, all. Why aren’t carrots and celery comforting?
I’m not an over-eater or binge eater by nature. I recognize it for what it is. An effort to find relief from this ho-hum gel that has been poured on my head. This ecto-plasmic goo from some other parallel universe that likes to punish Intellectual Creatives. I feel like I’m suspended in Jell-O. I can see out around me, but i can’t move. And in some strange way, it feels good to just be held like that.
And i have been watching way too many episodes of Criminal Minds. Have grown very fond of the show, but it is, after all, a show about the underbelly of humanity. I used to go through times when i couldn’t watch the news because it depressed me so much. How people are. How vicious the world can be, and all the humans in it. So i would avoid it, and feel better. But haven’t i been making the same mistake with these serial – killer – crime – investigation type shows too? Maybe that’s contributing to my melancholy. I should stop. Let’s see, i only have about 20 more episodes on the DVR to go…
The underlying problem is good old-fashioned loneliness. I know that. And i know I’m doing what i can to fix it, but these things take time and money, and since the move, I’ve been the very quintessence of a hole-dweller. In the hole. It is very grave-like. This too shall pass. I know. But until it does, it sucks. And it’s on the heels of prolonged isolation and loneliness from whence i came. I moved to solve this problem (among others). And now I’m smacked by the frost-bitten hand of reality. You can’t open a pack of Instant Social Life Deluxe and just add water. It’s a stew. Like a crock pot variety. It takes a long time and has to go through a process. And i keep taking the lid off and breathing the aroma and wishing it was done so I could enjoy it.
People suck. But i only say that because I’ve had an inordinate amount of sucky people cross my path. I can also say that people rock. I have great friends. I just miss them. I never get to be with them. Okay. Love sucks. No, not love. The lack of love. That’s what sucks. That warm body next to mine. (And my cats don’t count, here, though they do their best by following me around and lounging on me). The lack of intimacy and romantic sparks and connection. Of loving and being loved in a physical, I’m-here-and-I-matter-to-someone-way. But it needs to be someone who matters to me too.
That’s the challenge. Finding someone who affects me that way, and then having the feeling be mutual. The hard part is that sheer absence of anyone I am really attracted to. The traits that seem to titillate my dopamine and oxytocin and other choice pleasure chemicals in my brain, seem like something only a paleontologist could find. I am holding on by my fingernails. And they are quite stubby. And bleeding.
But depression is boring. I don’t like it and I don’t like telling anyone about it. We all know what it is. But i just don’t want it to define me. There are other, more pleasant definitions of me. I am only having trouble accessing those at the moment.
Maybe I should just relocate to Prozac Nation.