Tag Archives: depression


I’m on vacation from work this week and, as usual, I’m staying home for it.  I’m not even sure I’d travel if I could, honestly.  Usually by the time I hit vacation, I’m so burnt out that I just want to be left alone in more or less absolute solitude for most of that time.  Has to do with being introverted, I suppose, this need to refuel and savor the silence.

And this week has been good so far.  I’ve been sleeping in, watched the entire final season of Dexter, the new episode of Downton Abbey, and several episodes of Star Trek: Enterprise.  Sunday was my lay-in-bed-do-nothing day, except I may have put gas in the car and gotten Panda Express around 9pm, so that’s sort of doing something.  Monday, I did five loads of laundry, as well as stopped at the bank (credit union, they were open even though it’s a federal holiday) and the store to pick up some odds and ends.  I also did dishes.  Today, I went to the grocery store and put washer fluid in the car.  It’s getting colder out, so that wasn’t quite as pleasant as it would have been if the temperature was over 20 degrees F.

What I haven’t been doing, however, is writing.  I feel nothing quite so severe as dread or anxiety about it, but I’ve been doing anything else at all.  I think I could plot out the last couple chapters of Lazarus, which has been on hiatus far too long and I do dishes.  I think I could just jot down that scene running through my head so I don’t forget it, but that is quickly followed by after I make hot chocolate and clean my craft room and watch one more episode of Enterprise.  I mean, it’s ridiculous.  I’m trying not to put stress on myself about it, but I’m stressed.  I feel bad that I haven’t been writing for months due to work and depression, but even when I have time or energy, I simply can’t do it.

This isn’t new for me, but I’ve yet to figure out how to combat it.  I mean, just sitting down and writing isn’t doing it for me.  I sit down.  I’m sitting now.  Have been for three hours.  My notebook is here and I could even find a few pages I just have to type in, no real thinking involved, and yet I’m avoiding it like it’s a jab at the doctor’s office.  I usually avoid things that are unpleasant until I have no choice, yes, but this shouldn’t be unpleasant so why am I avoiding it?

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Posted by on January 21, 2014 in Uncategorized


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What to do?

Well, it’s October 13th, which means NaNoWriMo is about 2 1/2 weeks away.  Last year at this time, I was completely lost as to what I was going to write, having too many ideas.  I ended up starting a week late and not winning, though I put up a good fight through the end of the month.  I don’t consider it a loss, of course, because I am still working on the project and am (slowly) closing in on 100,000 words.  Actually, if I counted the extra pages I slipped off into another file for later use, I’d be over that mark.  I have, however, been lapsing on the writing altogether in the last few months.

Summer has generally been a tough writing time for me.  It’s not that I’m out doing things or anything, but more that I’m miserably exhausted and hot and can’t really manage much else with my day after work.  I gave a half-hearted attempt at Camp NaNo a couple times, but never made it much further than a day.  I can’t imagine how November works for me at all, being that work is busy and exhausting with holiday setup and such, but I can’t complain.

This year for NaNo, I’m again not sure what I’m going to do.  Again, I have several ideas.  I need to finish both Lazarus Machine and John’s Gamble.  I had hoped to have them done by now, but my emotional state has not worked out in my favor.  Job-hunting and crippling depression have been highly distracting.  My reduced work hours should give me more time to write, but it mostly just gives me more time to feel shitty about myself.

So, options on the plate include, but are not limited to: a historical romance novel that has been swimming in my head for several years now but has less than two chapters written; finishing my current projects, which, paired together, would most likely yield the required number of words; something entirely random, taking the no plot, no problem concept to its purest meaning (least likely); or devising a goal system for revising any of the prior NaNoWriMo novels I’ve written to finally end up with a relatively salable product.

Given my financial situation, the last would be the most advisable and realistic, really, since I really need to finish something, make it presentable, get to a point where I can say, this is DONE and I don’t have to consider/think/fidget/worry about it anymore.  I’ve tried this, albeit somewhat half-heartedly, in months following November, such as December, January, and Camp during the summer, but have never been quite successful at keeping to any sort of schedule.

I also fear ripping apart what I have done and stalling.  That is what happened to my very first complete novel, written in college.  I wrote steadily every week, had several hundred pages at the end, and then started to revise.  I ended up wanting so much changed upon revision, that the manuscript ended up feeling like a huge waste of time.  I’m not so sure that some of the things I wanted to change needed it (particularly in light of certain events in Twilight) but at the time, certain elements seemed childish and ridiculous (*cough*).

So what happens if I rip another one to shreds and am left with no useful scraps worth piecing together?  Should revision be this terrifying?

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Posted by on October 13, 2013 in Uncategorized, Writings


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Missing persons (ie, more depressing shit, ignore me)

I’m not sure where I’ve been lately, but it hasn’t been in my writer-head. During my early-June vacation, I had (as always) hoped to write and get some stuff done. I wrote, and got stuff done, but not nearly what I’d hoped or planned. That is fine, and quite expected. I stated before that I wanted to finish two things (any two things) during my vacation, and I didn’t really come close. However, I did push myself after my vacation was over to focus on Sherlock and the Huntsman, a shorter piece that I was within sight of finishing. The next couple weeks saw two chapters posted for that story, but it meant The Lazarus Machine went without updates. I was okay with that.

And then. I was a bit stuck on Huntsman, knowing I only needed a chapter or two to finish. I’d overcome the plot hurdles and now just needed to write the climax and the happy ending. That’s still all I have left to write. And still, The Lazarus Machine languishes. I managed to skip over where I’d been a little stuck and write a good page or two towards my ending, but the last week and a half, I’ve been terrified out of my own head.

Depression, folks. Should have been an excellent week. Tuesday the 16th, some friends of mine and I were going down to Chicago to see Neil Gaiman, which is exciting. I was a bit stressed about it because money has been an extremely stressful thing for me lately, but arrangements had been made. It was a miserably hot day, but it was a fun drive down. And then I twisted my (already not-great) knee on the way to the signing. Sucked it up, hobbled along, because what else could I do? We were on the middle of a street in Chicago.

Came home the next day and after four hours in the car, could barely hobble ten feet. Went home. Called in sick for work the next two days. Cried in bed because if I can’t walk, I can’t work, can’t get paid, can’t afford to live or take care of myself or be in any way an adult. As it is, I can’t do that. Injured, I’ve no hope at all.

I won’t recount all the swirling shit in my head because I don’t really want to work myself up about it again, but it was definitely a final straw in the stresses I’ve been fighting off. The only recourse I had was to stay out of my own head. TV and books are generally the best at doing that, for me, so I refused to be left alone with my own thoughts. Which also means no writing, which is 95 percent in my head (so filled with landmines that I could pretty much only stand still and cry).

Thus, it’s been a good five or six weeks now since I’ve updated The Lazarus Machine, quite without meaning to let it go this long, and I don’t have a completed Huntsman to show for it. It would have made so much more sense to use my off-work recovery time to write, but it was like the only way to survive was to stuff cotton balls in my ears, cover them with my hands, and scream LA LA LA LA LA as loud as I could to drown out the bad thoughts.

As for the moment, my knee is improving, but since that was only one of several worries, it only eases the panic a little bit. The awful heat has relented for a day or two, which also helps, because I certainly don’t need the added misery. Everything else? I can only shrug.

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Posted by on July 20, 2013 in depression


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A bummed-out mess — WARNING, self-indulgent crapfest

Last night at work, weariness took hold by the end.  I was going through the motions, but my ability to care about anything was gone.  I had someone piss and whine about something unintentional and inconsequential and I turned off.  Fortunately, the night was nearly ended, so I didn’t have to do exhausted robot for too long.  I stayed for the paperwork, entering someone’s incomplete (no phone number is XXX-XXX-XX, wtf?) and illegible information in the computer.  I still feel the pulse of mild hysteria in my chest when I repeat the phrase that came out of my mouth, “What the hell letter is this even?  A balloon?”  It was, and still is, so funny-horrible-pathetic that I could almost cry and laugh at the same time, still.

I’m tired.  I’m so goddamn tired.  It’s the sort of tired that can’t really be cured by sleep.  I took a week of vacation, but, as usual, I didn’t schedule it soon enough.  That last week before vacation time is always the worst.  Five days of work until at least 8 days off.  In a row.

Starting vacation today, however, would have been better.  I crashed today.  I didn’t leave the house.  I barely left the bedroom.  I didn’t leave my pajamas.  I slept until noon, which helped, but I couldn’t bear to make myself do the sorts of things that presented me to the world.  I didn’t shower; I didn’t dress.  I didn’t even order food in because dealing with a delivery person was more than I could stand, as if their momentary presence, just another person’s physical existence, would utterly destroy me.

How’s that for melodramatic?

And so I apologize to anyone who might have expected me to do something remotely sociable today, because that just could not happen.  I couldn’t call my mother, even though I told her I would check up on her and since she had surgery less than two weeks ago, that would have been daughterly.  I couldn’t bear to lie or tell the truth.  I couldn’t call my best friend, even though I don’t see her nearly often enough and it was her birthday yesterday and I feel shitty about only making a wall post on Facebook about it.  I couldn’t answer the door when my old neighbor J stopped by, probably driving 30 miles from where he moved to, though probably not just to see me, but he did stop by and I crept to the door, peered through the peephole, and crept back to bed.  He may have heard and know I ignored him, or maybe not, and I feel bad either way since he knows my car and knows I was home.  Hopefully he thought I was sleeping or something.  My curtain wasn’t open, so I generally figure that is enough of a not-receiving-callers sort of sign, but he never once held to that unspoken rule.  But I couldn’t face him long enough to actually say anything.

So on top of all the shit, I feel guilty, too.  Because I needed to be alone, vastly alone, and I feel like that disappoints everyone.  Not that anyone I need to apologize to reads my blog, but I suppose that’s just as well.

I disappoint myself, too, because I don’t know if I have enough gas in the car to get to work tomorrow, I have no food in the house and I had pancakes without syrup for lunch and tater tots for dinner because I haven’t been grocery shopping in ages and the lettuce is brown and the bread is probably green, the milk is expired and the eggs are gone.  So there are several things I ought to have done today that I didn’t do, but I wallowed instead.

I wallowed and I feel like I did in high school and the summers between college semesters.  I crafted until I hurt last night before bed.  Today I laid around on the computer and read Sherlock fan fiction the entire day.  The.  Entire.  Day.  It made me miss the online friends I had back in college, the ones who would let me whine to them the entire night through.  It probably wasn’t helpful, but I felt like I was in some sort of pathetic little community.  I could be social without being social.

Clearly, I make it really hard for someone to be my friend.  I understand that.  I feel like I’m getting more and more difficult, and I’m making less and less of the required effort.  And maybe I’ll feel different after a good night’s sleep, or a vacation week away from work.  Won’t really take me away from stress, because I bring that upon myself, true, but at least maybe being less sore and tired will help.

For anyone still reading, I’m sorry.  I had to write this, but I didn’t have to post this 🙂  Maybe getting it out of my head will get it out of my life, if only temporarily.  The day went so quickly.  It is already midnight and I feel as if it should be merely four in the afternoon, about time for a shower and supper and a partial day where I can actually function.  However, there is no partial to the day left, and while I feel somewhat better (or not, the balloon hysteria still wells up a bit when I think of it), it is merely time to think of heading to bed to start another day.

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Posted by on September 23, 2012 in Uncategorized


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