Pick yourself up,
Dust yourself off
And start over again....
Those are the famous lyrics from the great Nat "King" Cole song about persistence. That literally came to mind a few minutes ago. I was reading a FB post where someone asked a writing question, and in my mind, I had the answer. And it occurred to me that slowly, I'm coming back to the writing life.
I never formally quit, but the stress of losing a family member, then the failing of my mother's health--then Covid...well, I stopped writing.
Not only that, but I stopped reaching out to friends. I stopped doing things I love. I stopped doing things I need to do.
I stopped living.
Last fall, my physician gave me a paper to fill out without telling me what it was. Turns out, it was a screening for depression and boy, did I pass with flying colors! Meaning I was way far down in the toxic dump of depression. I don't keep it secret that I have bi-polar disorder, but I've always managed it through behavioral therapy, as medications have adverse effects on me. And honestly, when I get manic, I'm very productive, albeit very annoying and arrogant. And the mania generally pushes me into migraine headaches, so its self-limiting.
Depression? Generally, I don't know its happening till I'm up to my neck. My house isn't just a mess--its broken. Honest. My back door fell off and try as I might, I couldn't repair it. So we rigged a brilliant quilted doorway that lets the dogs out at night, but keeps the worst of the cold out. Yes, I could have called a handy man, but that would have required cleaning my house. *sigh*
Then there's a the chronic pain issue. Learning to live with that taxes me to my limits. It's also the reason I'm not under my sink this very moment, fixing the pipes. It's an invisible disability (till I fall down spontaneously) and even my family doesn't quite comprehend how bad it is. My sister tells me I'm lazy.
As you see, depression isn't just depressing, its toxic. Its illogical and dangerous. I tried to dig myself out. I tried to ignore it, pretend its not happening. But I'm tired, I'm sad and I'm ashamed. And it's been going on for years.
So about that screening? Well, I was again referred to behavioral therapy and this time, it's just annoying. But I'm trying. And part of trying is not letting myself drown under the obligations and repairs and self-denial, but setting aside time to reconnect with my writing, explore more visual arts and even--watch TV. OMG.
If I've fallen out of touch with you, I'm sorry. I've had nothing positive to say, and I can't stand sharing the bad stuff. You might have sent me email that I missed. I wasn't ignoring it. I forgot to pay my bill. Missed a book release party. My series came to an abrupt stop? I lost my sense of direction. I lost my words.
I'm rebuilding. The industry has changed and I haven't changed with it. There are new trends in fiction, I'm still back in the books I was working on when I started slipping. I did a little ghostwriting, which got words flowing, and really challenged my problem solving skills. (OMG. Those outlines!!!) I wrote a western last year. Now I'm re-editing the Uncommon books and the Bacchi. Which is giving me ideas. And a new name...more on that later.
I'm not back, not 100%, but I'm not gone like I was. I'll be honest, I'm still struggling with depression, and with it, guilt and doubt. But there's a beam of light in my tunnel.
The photo below is a dog named Cinnamon Bear. In this photo, he's probably 11 or 12. A couple years before this was taken, Cinnamon had a seizure from a medication. As he was seizing, he slammed his head on concrete, causing a brain injury.
The vet told his owner he'd never recover. She didn't believe him. She looked into Cinnamon's eyes and he told her he wanted to live, so she and the dog began a long journey of teaching him to walk again, to eat and poop without assistance. He recovered, but it took over a year of persistence I took this photo when I was visiting my friend one winter. It actually wasn't a shot of him, but two other dogs, and Cinnamon was in the background of the shot. It was a bit of a miracle when I spotted him in the photo, far up on a hillside, running for the sheer joy of it.
There's a lesson to be learned here, and I'll keep coming back and looking at Cinnamon, just so I don't forget.
