It's been a tough go of it lately in dealing with my depressive feelings and it's made even more so by my recent introduction to a new job.
There's something disheartening about being unable to connect with other people the way I used to. All smiles, jokes and laughter -- I was proud of the way I handled myself and looked forward to spirited conversation with the nearest person I could find.
No longer.
It seems like I'm chasing a ghost these days. The more I slide off the peak of my moods, the more I dream of the past, the more sad I get.
Because I remember how it used to be. In the same sense that a widower might, having lost the one she loved.
In a way, I'm grieving. On occasion I pound with balled fists upon the chest of my seemingly dead self, hoping to bring it back to life once more -- and it just lies there, motionless and looking up at me with these cold, dead eyes that I'm afraid to peer into.
I'm reminded at the moment of how much I love my melodrama. It's suited me well in the past. Both with writing and in relationships. With my ability to exaggerate, I was able to leverage it into a talent for story telling and it also functioned as a means to hone the edge of my feelings. I would feel emotion more intensely than the average person would, and I'd revel in that.
And that melodrama hasn't quite died yet I don't think. I see it in the words I am typing at the moment, words I've typed elsewhere and the occasional joke that escapes my lips all are drenched in this secret sauce of mine. I look at the topic title for this post and go, "huh. that doesn't quite pertain to what I'm writing about, but maybe it will reach that conclusion at some point."
It just seems like I thrive on drama and I wonder if in a sense, that has been my undoing. In addition to the continued deterioration of my capacity to hear other people well to hold a stable conversation without having to strain at their words.
But if drama is the problem I'm facing. That incessant need for wanting to make more of something than there really is -- then what would I end up being without it?
A soulless husk. A shell.
Wouldn't I be?
There's always something sad to remark upon when hearing stories of people who have reached great heights, whether personal or outwardly in nature -- only to have fallen down to a pit that they don't seem able to extract themselves from. Our society enjoys a good, poignant drama involving the human condition and I am a more guilty victim of this than it seems most are.
It's not that I care so much about the triumphs and failures of celebrities that I'll never meet who I read about on the cover of gossip rags while waiting in line at the grocery store -- it's that I care about the people that are close to me. Every one of their triumphs is a bit of a triumph for myself. Every one of their failures, is something that I feel partially responsible and saddened by.
I think some would call this empathy, and if that's what my condition can be described as, then I wouldn't argue against this particular bit of judgement.
Except, I don't know if it was just empathy that has sustained me through the best and worst of times. I think it was more than just sympathy for my fellow man.
I think it was something along the lines of respecting the natural order of things and believing in it enough to feel inspired by it.
I think I just had a lot of faith in the notion of there being a spiritual democracy of sorts that governed the world and interactions at large. That we vote unconsciously towards the world we want to live in and that a governing body would tally up these ballots and implement the change we wish to see.
But as I get older, I'm starting to doubt the existence of such a system being in place.
Maybe that's what depresses me most. Knowing that all the faith I might have in the world, is all for naught. That faith is nothing more than wishful thinking and that my sphere of influence is so minuscule that I may well be rendered impotent.
When I was a wide-eyed child looking upon this world with equal parts fear, awe and respect; there was a good deal of obstacles that stood in the way of this view of mine. That we are all one and the rules are fair as well as being open to negotiation whether it be through prayer, or devotion towards a particular cause.
In short, I thought faith alone was all I really needed. To believe in myself and that I wouldn't get fucked over for any of it.
Well, the years have eroded away such a naive notion and has left me with a great deal of uncertainty.
One thing I am thankful for however, is that I can still write down my thoughts in a fair amount of illuminating detail. I can still write. But that muse.. the muse is about as fickle as a mistress in the best of times and as conspicuous as a shadow during the worst.
I NEED to finish my book. My novel is still sitting at around 200 pages on chapter 30 and it doesn't feel anything close to being finished.
It's already been a year and a half since I started writing it.
I've been going backwards instead of forwards, mainly because of how daunting a challenge it really is to write a book. There's no passion behind these fingers of mine at the moment and when I think about how I managed to write 200 pages in the first place -- I'm reminded that I was under pressure to perform.
Maybe that's the problem with me right now. I'm not pressuring myself enough. I like complaining and talking about "writing a novel" more so than actually doing it. But it's not like I don't think my book has a chance and should be tossed out with the trash; I really do think it has a good shot at becoming something quite compelling.
It's just that.. I've lost either faith in it, or .. No, I haven't lost faith if I'm still continuing to talk about it. No, I think I've only .. no, I haven't lost faith in myself either.. So what is it? What's causing this blockage of my imagination? Why is my will not being done?
Maybe because I'm scared. Scared that all that hard work is going to amount to nothing. That it won't be appreciated. It won't make any money. And all I'll have is 300-400 pages of drivel that I've spent over a year and a half worrying and talking about.
I don't know. Or maybe I'm just scared of the work involved because I'm not assured of what the results of finishing it would be.
I don't fucking know anymore.
It's amusing to me how much I've been typing in this blog post when I know that applying this same amount of effort towards the novel would yield more productive results.
But that's a question I wonder about. Maybe my inner-most thoughts need to be exposed, examined and written down first before I can move on with the book. Maybe self-examination is the key to discovering the enthusiasm I've been hoping to reclaim.
God damn is this ever hard to figure out.
What is this post? 1,100 words?
Could've been half of a chapter already.
It's Sunday night and I need to prepare myself for work tomorrow morning. Where I'll face the usual difficulties in connecting with others and continuing along with my sullen self, watching imagination evaporate as I rip off insulation from piping for ten hours in freezing weather.
There must be a better way.
I might find it just yet.
