I keep trying to write a blog post. But even as I’m forming the idea for a post in my head, I decide I shouldn’t follow through. What I have to say isn’t worth writing. It’s trite. Lacking insight. In a world full of brilliant, creative people, I’m bottom of the barrel.
Fishing for a compliment? Maybe I am. But this is me posting about why I’m not posting. When I boil down through all the reasons not to write..no time, no energy, no inspiration…the real reason is that I don’t believe in myself. I don’t have confidence.
What causes that? Clinical depression. Postpartum depression. The blues. Self-sabotage. That voice in your head keeping you from trying in order to avoid failure. Which also ensures you never succeed.
Great. I know why I don’t write. That’s half the battle, yes? Sure.
The problem is that for me, depression is a war. One battle doesn’t ensure total victory. And you also don’t win every battle. There are some days when I push through my own inertia and have a semi-productive day. A win. And the next, I’m bowled over by my own brain.
I’ve talked about my rheumatoid arthritis on this blog before. How my own body attacks my healthy tissue and joints- sabotaging itself. It’s the same with depression. My brain attacks my sense of self. Chemical imbalances and genetics play off the tragedies and setbacks in my life turning them into insurmountable obstacles.
Some days, with the right medication, I can tackle hurdles like a “normal” person would. Go through my day blending in with the straights. I buy milk and bread and take my son to the park and cook a real meal and maybe even do something akin to exercise. I win.
Other days, even with the right medication, I’m treading water in a sea of normal, capable people desperately hoping they don’t see me for what I really am. An impostor. Pitiful. Weak. Incapable.
As a child, I thought that I would finally feel confident and secure when I grew up. And now I realize after being a supposed adult for the past 16 years, that you’re exactly the same person you were as a child, only taller with a few more coping mechanisms and too many responsibilities.
Depression makes me feel like a child. It makes me feel like a loser. It tells me I’m worthless.
It’s so hard to rise above it. So hard to tell myself positive things. Looking in the mirror, it’s like pushing a load uphill just to say “I’m beautiful.” Watching my son grow, it’s a herculean effort to believe I’m doing the right things.
The idea of planting a garden this spring is right up there with building a space shuttle for NASA in how impossible it would be for me. Checking my office voicemail is to neurosurgery as curing cancer is to achieving world peace. My depression has me living an unbalanced analogy.
But I don’t want to live that way.
I started dance classes again. I’ve gone to two so far. I paid in advance to give myself a good reason to go out into the cold dark night to enrich my life. I have a writing date planned with a writer friend. So you know, we could write in each other’s presence. My hope is that I can feed off of whatever creative energy he might give off. Get psyched up to express myself again.
When bothering to fix your hair seems like a triumph, self-actualization is winning a Nobel prize. I haven’t felt accomplished in a long time. Apparently, that’s something I used to like about myself or else I wouldn’t bother to break the surface to attempt it.