The past month or so
has been challenging. Not because anything’s wrong—everything has been going
well in fact. But my broken brain doesn’t know that. I’ve been fighting moments
of darkness—of sticky black clouds caught in my chest, of paralyzing fatigue,
of thoughts I don’t want to revisit once my mind is right again. The surface
remains calm, too calm, numb. The unsettling calm before a storm.
I don’t know how
unwell I might be; I just know I’m off from my normal. The world feels a little
off. And I try to self-care by buying fresh flowers, hanging more art, not
being alone too long. There is an undercurrent of urgency to find the fix, fill
the void before I really fall in. My day becomes a set of rules: sleep,
hydrate, shower, clean, don’t cry, don’t binge, don’t drink, don’t call that
person and burden them with the chaos you can’t yet explain, don’t cry again.
When I feel normal, I worry about how long it will last. Because some sticky
black clouds don’t wash away in the summer’s afternoon thunderstorm.
I want to be better.
I want to not be better because my writer’s block has subsided. I understand
the stereotype of the addicted writer now. It’s a balancing act of tapping into
the insanity of creativity and staying stable enough to survive the real world.
For now I’m choosing the latter, but I sympathize with those who chose the
former.
I know there are
brighter days. I know there are solutions. I know God loves me unconditionally.
But knowledge doesn’t stop the drowning; I have to swim too. I have put in
effort when effort feels insurmountable. Somewhere in this mess are lessons.
Somewhere I can probably learn how to properly understand and utilize
suffering. Something about it all is miserably and beautifully human.
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