Here's a thing you might relate to...

In an effort to get to the bottom of whatever problem it is that I have, my depression, anxiety, stress, lethargy, my general mental malaise, I've signed up to meet with a therapist. I've only seen her once, she was quick to pick up on the importance of my writing, of course, my ability to commit to my own talent is a barometer of my self-worth and measures of success. I have ideas, loads of ideas, I just seem to have a problem sitting down and writing them. So, therapist (I can't help but read that each time as Darrell Hammond's Sean Connery on SNL, the rapist, and lol {rape isn't funny}) told me to sit down at my desk each day.  Cut out a slice of time just to sit there, even if I don't write. Get back into the groove, of writing, or creating that perfect butt-groove in my chair, whatever. She suggested keeping some sort of running list, a dialogue of my brain of pros and cons while sitting there, why am I not writing? That sort of thing.

I kept up with it for a few days, writing in a "cognitive behavioral therapy journal," just letting my brain talk (it didn't have much to say at first). Then I fell off for more than a week, even though I thought about it every day as I failed to do anything. It's upsetting that I have such a problem. Last night, that anger and frustration came out. It may not be toward any fiction project, but a lot of words poured out.

I'm sharing that now, because, where I may not have had any epiphany or broken any barriers (real or imagined), there was a catharsis in essentially yelling at myself. It's screaming at the sky, it did nothing and I got nothing out of it, and the void does not respond. But, I got some things out that other writers, other creative types, other people in general might be able to identify with. Maybe you're struggle is similar or exactly like mine. Maybe you've overcome something and have some pointers (God knows, I'm willing to listen).

Anyway, here it is, my diatribe from last night:

I have nothing but inane excuses, just a mental exhaustion, a pervasive lethargy that I just can’t bust. I even think about how I’m failing at just the task of sitting at my desk. And I know nothing worthwhile is ever really easy. I know it’ll take time and practice. I just get upset with myself because it’s easy, it’s a thing I enjoy, when I do it, and the work I produce I’m confident in. But…and there is no “but” and that is so frustrating.
I feel like my imagination is racing, champing at the bit to tell stories, but my gumption, my wherewithal, my get-up-and-go to do the damn thing is just gone. And the frustration mounts and I’m sick and furious with myself, but powerless to make a change. Here I sit, beating myself up to a journal, and even now, there’s thoughts for stories in those brain-browser tabs. For some reason or another, I put it off, the idea isn’t ready, I’m not ready, everything seems to depend on some unattainable fruition.
It’s like I’m waiting on something to click. Waiting on a turn of phrase to come along with the idea that’s good enough to write down. Waiting for some inspiration, serendipitous or forced, to call me to action. It’s like trying to crack my neck, knowing that if I can just get one good pop I’ll feel some sort of relief or release. Instead, I just twist and crank and put myself in more pain as I can feel my body, the muscles in my shoulders and neck, resist and just strain against the need. I’m wrestling both my body and imagination and they’re both adamantly against letting go of…whatever. Anything!
The meditation in the morning is nice, but I’ve failed to follow it up in the evening when I get home from work. Setting aside time is like a chore in and of itself.
I value my time with my family, I’m happy to be with them, I enjoy my time with them, I laugh and scoff and engage. I don’t necessarily feel like I’m in a rut, but maybe I am, or I’m afraid to be. I’m depressed. I’m anxious. I’m stressed the fuck out. All of it makes me tired.
Not so much physically tired, sometimes I’m not ready for bed, but I try to get to bed at a usual, reasonable time, 10-10:30, and I get my sleep, for the most part. It’s that mental exhaustion. My body is indeed tired, but it’s in my head. I’m exhausted from the rigmarole, my own creation, a monster of my own making, even if I wasn’t in on the process. I zone out, but I’m not bored. My mind races constantly: story ideas, chore ideas, needs, wants, what is the cat doing, what did the dog chew up today, how are Autumn’s grades, what is Amber thinking when I fail and just beat myself up?
I guess I focus on the negative more than I should. I guess that makes me a pessimist. But I like to think I’m an optimistic pessimist. Next weekend my new audiobook should be up. I hope it does well. I want it to do well. I know it’s not going to be my big break, but it’s a step in that direction. Then I think, I need to have more stuff out there! I need to write more stuff to put out there. And…there’s not a word for the nothingness.
It’s a facial expression of someone who’s seen something they can’t explain. It’s fear and frustration and astonishment and confusion, but without the heart racing. It’s an absence of excuse or rationale. It pisses me off. I’m a writer. My job is articulation and I can’t even paint a word picture to describe the meh-feeling that overwhelms and consumes me.
I want to drink, but that’s not the answer. I want to get high, but the times I’ve done that I wasn’t able to relax, to relinquish control of my body to the effects; plus, it’s not the answer. I want a magic pill that makes me feel energetic and comfortable at the same time, a motivator, something that puts a smile on my face and my mind. But, that’s not the answer, either. I want an answer. I want to know what’s going on at a micro, chemical, hell, even a spiritual level that has blocked me up so.
That’s what it’s really like. Constipation. The shit is there, it just ain’t coming out. I don’t think I can put it any better than that at the moment.

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