February 13th...
The ongoing trials of a bipolar writer...
I keep feeling like I don’t know how to do this… like the reality of writing has left me. Turns out, burnout and depression are a horrifically cruel one-two punch. I want to be able to do this. I want it. I WANT it. Too much. I want to be successful at it. I want to flourish. I want to survive. And I need to be paid. It’s no longer a question of want in that regard. I live in a capitalist society. And escaping it requires a fee, one I cannot afford. Thus to live, to tolerate my nightmare health, to even eat, there must be money. I’m grateful for my pension, so overwhelmingly grateful. But It’s not enough. I don’t want to be Jonathan Larson, dead at 36, still not knowing if it was enough. If I worked hard enough. If I was tortured enough. If I sacrificed enough.
I want out. Out of this hole I’ve found myself in. Out of my despair. Just not His way. If I wasn’t ready at seven to do it for my ethics, I’m not ready now. I couldn’t do that to my parents. I know that brand of grief and I cannot willingly cast it on those I love.
So what does that leave me? Take meds. Spend the little I have to bring small joys. See all my doctors. Have days where getting out of bed is impossible. Hug my cats. Wait. Try to read. Fail from manic lack of attention. Wait some more. Video game until my hands can’t take anymore. Wait for the void to pass. Wonder if I’ll be able to leave the house something this week. Wonder if my I can somehow sync my adult schedule with my friends. Everyone is too busy. Too worried. Too broke.
I keep questioning everything, to the point of taking apart the one thing I have left; my long term diagnosis. What is Bipolar? What is ADHD? or OSDD? My anxiety is just overriding everything I think I can hold onto. Maybe it's my meds. Again. The thing about long term medication is the messed up fact it doesn't work forever. You spend ages trying to find the right balence, the right combination. And then, at an unknown time in the future, it just stops. Or worse, suddenly turns into new unknown side effects. Every few years, I know I'll have to rat race my way through another med shift. Maybe that's what's happening now. Time's up.
This depression is like a fire blanket, smothering and depriving me of oxygen. And we've moved past seasonal as an excuse for this mood. six months isn't seasonal. It's chronic. Like the mould in my house from the rain. An infestation.
30 is coming for me. Barrelling fast. The gifted kid in me feels the failure, but the old lady just wants more. She’s so ready for saggy and wrinkled and to have nothing left to lose. I aspire to be her. To have so much life under my belt that I can be satiated. Ah, the dream of age. I just want to make it with my mind intact. With my soul patched but together.
So I turn from my seasonal depression. From the countless rejection email judging me from my inbox. From my psychosis and my exhaustion.
And I try again. Maybe it will get easier. Maybe I’ll find some internal peace. Or maybe I just need some more cat cuddles and a fresh pot of tea. Guess I’ll find out.
To be continued…
About the Creator
Erin A. Sayers
I’m a writer and filmmaker living in Sydney with a passion for speculative genres. As a disabled, queer, culturally diverse woman, I want to change the culture around what makes interesting science fiction and fantasy.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.