Today, the sun was shining for the first time in awhile. I love the dreariness of rainy days, the romance that comes with the gray and dullness. I love the excuse to stay indoors curled up with a good book and hot cup of tea. But too much of it drains my energy and good mood. So, today I got to feel that hopeful feeling again, the one that comes when the sun is cuddling you with its rays.
I crept out of my emotional writing bubble and actually wore my favorite accessory, my smile.
I spent some time with my best friend, Josh, and that always puts me in a great mood. It’s really nice to have those equally weird people in your life who can make you laugh…swapping jokes about dinosaurs and making plans to take over the world from your volcano lair full of an army of sloths and crypto creatures.
Life is just funny when you suffer from depression combined with artistic snobbery. It is literally a roller coaster that you just can’t get off of. Honestly, I don’t think I would even if I could. I’m quite unexpectedly happy in my tiny world of fantasy and drama and fictional characters.
So, as I hum Here Comes the Sun, I’ll be waiting for another dreary day spent with a good book, a pile of blank paper and a hot cup of tea.
I have been feeling myself sinking lately. I feel as if my body is doing the impossible and shrinking into this tiny, invisible breath. One small gust of wind and I will be swept away and broken down into more microscopic particles that the naked eye cannot recognize.
But somehow in this ocean, this enormous, bottomless blue pit of depression, I am keeping my head just above it. I am kicking my feet and rowing my arms as fast and hard as I can. I am proud of that. I am proud that in the midst of emotional destruction, in the midst of this black hole that is swallowing me, I am still here. I am still forcing myself to wake up each morning, and I am still breathing.
My senses are in an overdose state from continuous Coldplay, Hozier and City and Colour. I dance in my kitchen, my long, curly, unkempt hair exploding around me. This is my natural state, the place where I am most comfortable. Music pounding against my ear drums as an army would pound against a stone wall in an attempt to forge through and conquer. I am still kicking, swimming, staying just above.
The monotony of my world, the never ending, robotic torture of being responsible is what I have grown to love. My heart is deep and full of this passion that has become motherhood, but the passion of that which was a writer has been dwindling on a thin strand, ready to snap at any moment. I count the seconds before I have lost all of me, becoming unrecognizable.
I grasp tightly to my old self, begging whatever God is there to stop stripping me of what I know, what I am good at, what I am proud of. Just as I feel the dream slipping through my fingertips, I find some sort of strength and grip even tighter. They are mine again, these words pouring from my fingers onto the keys of this computer. I can breathe again. I see me, and I am proud of where I am. I am proud to be a writer. I am proud of keeping my head just above. I am proud of the monotony.