Sometimes, It's Not That Simple

Start writing...Everyone starts out, at least in the realm of creative minds, as a dreamer - we dream of being the writer, being the artist, aspiring to heights of those that inspire us. I was one of those dreamers; my childhood was a wonderland of inspiration, with inspiration flooding my young mind at every turn. I wanted to draw everything I saw, learn every song, write stories based on whatever irreverent cartoon had captured my attention that morning. This continued into my teens, and I constantly strove to fine-tune my talents for expressing the world through the eyes of an eternal explorer. I was eventually accepted into an accredited art school, where I discovered photography as my true passion in short order. 
Then the accident happened. 
I'll spare the graphic details of my near-miss with the hereafter(that's another story entirely), and jump to two weeks later - waking up in an intensive care unit, wrapped in bandages and still hearing the freight train roaring in my head with every minor twitch and spasm. It was a rough and long road to recovery, in which I had to re-learn practically every voluntary motor function from scratch. I had suffered a massive head injury, and as a result even the most elementary of daily movement was a lesson in willpower. 
Fast-forward yet another year - I had fully recovered, and aside from a permanent limp and some equilibrium issues, I was back to functioning with a semi-consistent level of normalcy. Or so I thought. 
It started with whatever process takes place, when the image in one's head is transferred to the artist's hand - it was like a firewall had been installed, to prevent the communication from happening. Try as I could, even the most fundamental aspects of graphic art was suddenly terrifyingly alien... So I panicked. I tore through every medium I knew, with the result being the same every time. My first passion, it would seem, had left me. I jumped back into photography, as that was something that had always come naturally -- and couldn't manage to remember even the most simple rules. Writing proved as equally elusive to me, with hours spent staring at my computer screen with no idea where to start. I felt betrayed by my own mind, abandoned by the only true comfort I have ever known. I plummeted into alcohol-assisted depression, and gave up on life. 
Then the platitudes and criticism started flowing from friends and family. 
"It'll come back to you, give it time!" 
"It's just art, I'm sure you can find a new hobby" 
"Have you tried just *doing* it? It's that simple, just start drawing or writing and it will come back eventually" 
That was just under a decade ago; only recently have I been able to dip my toes back into the world of writing, the 'simplest' of art mediums. It's taken three days and insane focus to write the 498 words that you have read to this point. Whatever happened that day on the train tracks, rewrote something in my brain that killed a part of who I am as an individual. It changed my personality, perspectives on life, everything about me on an intrinsic level - the most terrifying part, is that there was no amnesia involved. I am consciously aware of who I was before, and accordingly I spend most days feeling like I'm inhabiting someone else's body. I still struggle with chronic depression and anxiety, with every new interaction triggering a bout of Imposter Syndrome - if I'm not me, how am I supposed to know if you are you? It has effected every aspect of my existence, yet I still get up every morning and put on a mask of relative stability. Life used to be simple, carefree, and fun. Unfortunately, dearest reader, sometimes it's not that simple. Life can turn itself upside down in an instant, leaving you with nothing where everything stood just moments before. This isn't some sickly-sweet platitude or motivational speech, telling you "ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE LOOK AT HOW I TURNED MY PITIFUL LIFE AROUND"; this is me, doing what it takes to regain some semblance of who I was before. Five days and countless cigarettes after starting this, we come to this point; if I captured your attention for a few moments and made Hunter S. Thompson roll over in his grave, then know that that means more to me than I probably realize. 
~fin~