Let me tell you, yesterday was one of those days.
When you are, how should I say it, “mentally ill”, it can take you by the ass and twist you around. And yesterday was one of those days. I got into a panic and I could.not.get.out. And when that happens, you feel the walls close in, you feel out of breath, you feel . . . hopeless.
And it was really kicking me hard.
That happens. And when I does it seems like people come up and slap me around and tell me to get my act together. And that happened yesterday. And this morning I feel a lot better for it.
Yeah, I wish I could be on meds . . . however, there is a problem with meds, and it was something I told someone the other day. When I was on medication I felt, as I would say, “level”. Yes, I wasn’t manic; yes, I wasn’t suicidal. Yes, I felt like I was in my happy place.
Only I didn’t have anything beyond feeling like I was in my happy place. I didn’t feel like doing much. I didn’t feel any passion. I was just there, existing. And while it’s better than wallowing in your despair all the time, it sucks when you want to really do something.
That “do something” being my writing.
For the two years I was on meds I had no creativity at all. It really turned me into the perfect corporate drone: show up, do your thing, go home.
Yes, I wasn’t threatening to go all Hunter Thompson on people, but it sucked in it’s own way. Because if you can’t exist in this world without just a little passion in your life, what’s the point?
And trust me: I have very little passion there now, so taking away what I do have sucks even more.
I’m back looking around. Yes, I will find something that will pay the bills–and at the same time I’m going to continue with my writing.
And yesterday I did a bit of thinking on my novel. And the short erotic story. I have more of the world laid out for the first and I have my female character bound, trussed, and ready for some serious bondage in the later.
And, hey: I can’t stay too crazy for too long if I’ve got that going on.