Posts Tagged ‘depression



I am a moody creature. Comes with the assorted flavors of mental illness I suffer from. One minute I can be exhausted and depressed, the next full of righteous fury, moving on to a brief period of productivity, then back to exhaustion. The roller coaster is not very fun.

Today was very much an exhaustion day. Had doctor visits scheduled both early and in the afternoon. Didn’t leave a lot of room to work on the writing, and my mood was not productive. So I didn’t do much. Added a couple sentences to Believe Me, and that was it.

Instead I played Scribblenauts Unlimited, which would be good if it wasn’t for the godawful controls on the PS4 version. Just gimmie the regular system keyboard or let me use my USB one. The wheels they use remind me of trying to use T9 texting.

Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day, I hope so.


Pushing Through

“I don’t wanna.” “I don’t feel like it.” “I don’t think I can.”

I’m very familiar with these mantras; I hear them often enough from my own lips. But sometimes you can shove them aside and find something worthwhile in doing the work regardless of whether you feel like it or not. The almost 8,000 words written on assorted writing prompts in the last week and a half or so says that’s the case, anyway.

Still, sometimes it’s hard to do it. When your body and brain don’t want to let you, when everything seems stacked against it, when it seems pointless do to. But this last week I pushed through that, and made progress, and feel like I should be proud of that.

There’s not going to be a second writing prompt tonight – getting too late in the day and I have other things I must do – but at least I know I still can do it even when I feel like I don’t want to, and there’s plenty more to come. After all, I’m only about 1/26th of the way through the goal of a writing prompt a day for a whole year.

Thinking about it that way makes it seem worse, somehow. Makes me feel like there’s so many to go instead of being satisfied with what I’ve managed already and the knowledge that I can keep going. “Eyes on the prize” is probably a phrase I need to remove from my vocabulary; thinking about the end from the beginning is just disheartening to me.

What keeps you out there going when the going gets tough? What to you say to yourself when your inner voice says “I don’t wanna”? Let us know down below.


Under Pressure

It’s only day 9 of posting every day, and only day 5 of my oath to do at least one writing prompt a day, and already I’m feeling burned out on the idea.

I know it’s just my depression talking, my imposter syndrome, my general apathy towards doing anything at all. I knew when I got up this morning it was going to be a bad day; sometimes you can just tell.

But at the same time, I wonder if it’s really those things just trying to blockade me, or if they know something I don’t. It’s hard to tell anymore, living constantly in a state of F.E.A.R. I can never tell if something is genuinely a bad idea, or if I just think it is.

That, of course, is even more stressful, and puts me off from doing anything. But I think I’m going to keep at it, anyway. Push through the pain, as they say.

What about you? When everything says “quit,” do you? Or do you force yourself? Or are you one of the lucky ones that thrives when under pressure? Let us know down below!


Mental Health Check

I tried to do one of these today, and it didn’t go well. I believe it would be marked a fail, were it the sort of exam one received a score for.

I’m exhausted. I’m frustrated. I’m tired. I’m irritable. I’m depressed. About half of that is due to mental illness -I suffer from chronic depression, so that’s to be expected, no matter how much happy candy they throw at me – but the other half is just the situation I’m stuck in.

I can’t work. Doctor’s orders. The government says I can work. Unemployment says I can work, and I’m not making an effort to find work, so tough cookies. That means no income. That means I’m essentially a leech, which is frustrating and depressing to me.

I can’t write. The part of me that used to want to, used to enjoy it, seems broken in some fundamental way. Some of it is rooted in jealousy and a worldview that has come to say “What’s the fucking point? Why write if no one reads it?” Part of it is writer’s block, having nothing I consider of value to say.

All it seems I can do is scroll endlessly through Twitter, being reminded constantly that I receive almost no interaction on my own tweets, surveys, polls or anything else I post, while being surrounded by people who brag incessantly about their own interactions and accomplishments. That feeds into the writing issues, which in turn feeds into the general malaise which makes me want to do anything even less.

So, yeah, all in all, all red checkmarks. Nary a black to be seen. It feels like the only thing I want to do anymore is sleep, just to move the clock forward, but I have no idea what I’m moving it forward to. The next period of staring at the walls, watching YouTube videos I don’t care about, being angry at the internet and taking a pile of pills that don’t seem to do any good while I wait for my next rejection letter from the SSA? Then, after I do that, I’ve been awake for about an hour or two and want to go right back to bed.

I’d say I’m suicidal, except I’m not. I’m too scared of what comes after to be suicidal. I’m sure it’s nothing good – and for my purposes, nothingness would be considered good, mind you – and probably much worse. But I’m as close as one can get to suicidal without actually doing it, I think. I already want to sleep the clock ’round, and that’s what you do when you’re dead, isn’t it?

I don’t know what to do about any of it. I’m just so done with everything, especially myself.


I Did a Bad, Bad Thing

It isn’t the first time. My brain, background, and situation frequently lead me to such moments.

When I was very young (probably no more than six; before Kindergarten, anyway), I had a shiny mylar He-Man balloon on a stick. Loved it. Then I got mad. Don’t even remember what about. So I popped it.

I remember feeling a savage sort of glee as I popped it, then shredded it, then twisted the stick until I could break it into small pieces. I remember a sensation not unlike grief when I calmed down and realized what I’d done.

It didn’t get any better. Later, furious at a teacher who had determined that my book review of Stephen King’s It wasn’t appropriate and made me redo the assignment (on Bunnicula, if memory serves), I yanked a model X-Wing from the fishing line that held it on the ceiling and shattered it into as many pieces as I possibly could. I’d worked very hard putting it together (I was never very good at doing models, especially those that involved glue; even as a child my hands didn’t work right, and the smell of the glue aggravated my asthma), and adored it even though it wasn’t quite right. Again, didn’t care in that moment. I wanted to hurt something or someone, and the more treasured the object, the better I felt. The sorrow, regret, and self-loathing came after.

Later still, wounded by the betrayal of the woman I was in a relationship with at the time, I took a Commodore 64, a Color Computer 2, an Atari 2600, an NES, and a Pikachu Nintendo 64 (and probably would have added the PS2 and PS3 to the pile, if they weren’t already broken) and destroyed them. There was glee as I pried off the keys, tore the wood panelling apart, cracked the RAM chips and shoved chunks of the motherboard into the garbage disposal. I haven’t really collected games since. I usually try to have current hardware, and my game shelf has a small array of whatever I’m playing at the time or haven’t finished yet. But an entertainment center with a carefully curated collection designed for display and a number of retro consoles/computers? Nope. Never again.

All of those (and other events) were before official diagnosis and medication. But last night, I succumbed to it once again.

I’m not going to say why, because it makes me feel and sound like even more of a whiny bitch than I already am, but I opened up Pages and deleted all my manuscripts. Then went to iCloud and flushed them from there, too. I don’t have backups. I don’t have hardcopies. They’re just gone, except for anything on Wattpad or here, which is nowhere near all of it (or even most of it.)

I don’t know if I’ll come back to it. I signed up for NaNoWriMo, but don’t think I can handle it. Don’t know if I want to. The grief hasn’t really hit yet; I’m still in the rage mode and fighting the urge to delete myself from the internet entirely. This blog, my Twitter, my Twitch, the books that are still in KDP. Just poof. My computer is in lockdown – thanks to depression and COPD, I am not physically or emotionally motivated enough to hook it up to commit such a purge – and the options to do so are not available from most mobile apps or the mobile versions of sites, so they’re safe for right now. But the urge is strong.

I don’t know what’s going to happen from here. If I suddenly disappear from your feed, you’ll know. I’m sorry.


What’s Stopping You?

Every creative person hits a wall or a block from time to time. But sometimes those blocks become ridiculously huge, and your ability to chip away at them shrinks to nothing. Even worse, when someone or something is constantly building that wall, it becomes a losing game to keep smacking away at it. It’s akin to bashing your head against a wall repeatedly, thinking sooner or later your fractured skull will actually break the concrete.

What stops you? What internal or external influence adds bricks to that wall? How do you counter them?

For me, it’s being online. Going online is unpleasant. I’m painfully socially isolated, and want to interact with people. I acknowledge that, as a writer, if I want people to read my work, I have to interact with others. But it feels like any attempts I make are met with explanations of how I’m a horrible person and should kill myself. I get that at least once a day, and while the might of the block button is strong, my mental issues are stronger. I will fret over it all day, either assuming they’re right, I am a horrible person, and I should commit suicide, or I will be fuming at the person who said it for being just plain wrong in whatever assumptions they made that led them to say that to me. Or both. Well. Maybe frequently both.

That usually ends with naptime or some fresh scars on my arms. It almost never ends in me returning to the keyboard or accomplishing anything of relevance that day.

I don’t know how to block it out, or how to chip away at that wall.

Having just moved (and still fighting with my employer and SSI in a vain attempt to get paid, at least for the 9 months I’ve been unable to work, which they still want to fight even though I now have four different doctors all in agreement that I’m messed up), I can’t even hit up my go-to comfort food. There is no Popeye’s in Albany. This is a terrible crime that should be rectified, posthaste. If you’re listening, corporate overlords of delicious fried chicken.

Anyway. Back to the question at hand; what builds your wall, and how do you try to break it down? Let us know down below.


Nothing To Report, Sir

I spent the morning being poked and prodded and made to lift many boxes and drag many more, to test my grip strength and to do toe-touches and squats.

It was not a pleasurable experience.

At the end of said experience, I was informed that, despite having to stop and use an aspirator many times during these exercises, that despite the large glob of lung tissue that was spat into a trash can, that despite the fainting spells, dizziness, and the migraine I got, that despite my heart rate being in the 130s and my oxygen dropping below 90% multiple times, that it matters more that I was able to do the things I was asked.

Lesson learned; they don’t care if you kill yourself doing a thing, so long as you do the thing.

The video isn’t coming today; I can’t talk and looking at the screen is making the one eye that can still see at the moment about to bleed, even with night-mode on. Hopefully tomorrow.

So, since I’m apparently still going to be arguing with people over the definition of disabled and will not likely be collecting any form of compensation this month, I’m still on the e-begging train; if you think you can help, please stop by my Patreon or consider dropping a dime in the bucket on my GoFundMe for my surgery fund. It’d help a lot. If you can’t, I understand; no worries. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, or so they say.

Hope everyone out there is having a better day than I am. Take care.



Working on a Video

It has not been a good week (and it’s only Tuesday.) That’s a common thread around here. Racking up the number of people who tell me to kill myself, that I’m a Nazi, or that my life is meaningless should just become my new career or hobby; apparently, I’m quite good at it.

I did manage to fill out most of the fields on the NaNoWriMo page, though for some reason it keeps deleting it when I attempt to add Chrysanthemum Graves as the project which I’ll be working on during that time. I’m sure I’m doing it wrong, or there’s some box I’m not ticking, and I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually, but it’s still annoying.

I’m making a video that will probably be up on YouTube tomorrow (or Thursday, depending on how uploads want to behave or not.) It’s not going to be pretty, is liable to be a bit ranty… but maybe it’s something some folks need to hear. Apparently, people like to hear other people’s opinions on mental health over there. We’ll see.

Until next time, folks.

KA Spiral no signature


NoNoWriMo Anxiety

So, yesterday I signed up to play with the cool kids in NaNoWriMo. Today I’m panicking.

I have no idea what I’d write for it.

I know I don’t want to use one of my half-finished manuscripts that are strewn about my hard drive like fish carcasses along the shore when the tide goes out. I feel starting fresh is the “fair” and “correct” way to do it, and anything I’m currently working on or previously touched is “dirty” with poor mental states and the stench of abandonment.

So I sat there all day yesterday and most of today, wondering what sort of story I would want to write, and am drawing a blank. I tried leaving the word processor open and staring at it for a while. I tried doing other things, hoping inspiration would strike while I wasn’t thinking about it.

Nothing’s coming to me. I know it’s probably weird to be worried about it, since I’m not supposed to put pen to paper for 25 whole days, but…

That’s on top of the usual issues of “why bother writing at all,” my usual load of depression that says “why bother leaving the bed at all,” and the stress of finances and moving.

Perhaps I should reconsider. We’ll see.

KA Spiral no signature


Medicated Downsides

I’ve mentioned before that I’m not mentally well… as if that wasn’t readily apparent from the things I write, read, play and watch. It makes things unpleasant, to say the least, a lot of the time. Even with medication, there’s still periods where the world just, for lack of better explanation, “grays out” and seems half-real and ultimately pointless.

That being said, on the whole, I prefer to have the meds than to be without them… except for one little thing.

Among my problems is bipolar disorder. Saying mood swings are a bitch is an understatement. When they initially diagnosed me, they thought I was severely bipolar and only medicated that. Then they discovered my “normal” was exceptionally low and adjusted to include severe depression. That’s been a little better… but the problem is that my bipolar experience included fairly lengthy – a month or more – periods where the mania would stick around, kick up its feet, light a cigar and make itself comfortable.

I miss those periods. Maybe not enough to say “fuck it” and chuck the meds, hoping the manic phase lands quickly and sticks around – because the low period is literally about six inches from going to bed and never coming back – but still a strong yearning.

I would sleep for two or three hours, add four thousand words to a manuscript, kick out three blog posts, clean the house, stack raid after raid in WoW or dozens of Greater Rift runs in Diablo and still feel energized. To be fair, I’d be smoking like a chimney the whole time, nervously munching on anything in the fridge and consuming prodigious amounts of soda and coffee, but at least I felt productive.

Without those periods, managing a single blog post and one or two sentences on a manuscript or story is an accomplishment. Add in the other health problems, where sitting in my chair or any kind of moving about for any period leaves me winded and exhausted, and even that much feels like a Herculean struggle sometimes.

So… yeah. There’s times where those manic periods look pretty appealing, and I wish I could capture them again and put ’em to work for me. I might actually get something done around here. What about my fellow neurodivergents out there? Do you feel better or worse with treatment? Are there things you wish you could keep from a pre-treatment period, even if overall you prefer the situation when it’s medicated? Let us know down below!

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