God. It's like admitting this out loud, letting it be real, out in the real world makes it real. Which is utterly ridiculous, really.
I've spent my entire writing career advocating for mental health and championing transparency so the world can stop seeing the mental needs of others as flaws.
And yet, when I hit my lowest point. Complete depression and burn out rolled into one I hid away. I pushed harder. I forced myself to do more, be more, work more.
Some of you probably know what happened next...I made things WAY worse.
Why did I push knowing it was doing more damage, causing more harm?
Because I'm a writer. That's what I do. I couldn't admit to myself that even staring at my office door made me feel like a balloon was precariously inflating in my chest. That the thought of letting one more single person down was another invitation for one more rejection. One more author friend deciding I'm not worth the effort, or the patience.
I get it. I dropped so many balls over the past year. Don't get me wrong, life hasn't been bad. I married a man who understands me on a level I don't even understand myself on. He's incredible. A tiny part of my brain tells me I don't deserve him every single day.
At the same time, I yearn to write. I've been reading, jotting down ideas, playing with little tidbits here and there but I haven't been able to write anything. It makes me feel like I've got phantom limb syndrome. I'm missing a part of my soul right now. How can I give all of myself to my loved ones, to my life, when something so vital to who I am is missing.
I've been trying to work on seeing who I am without writing. That didn't work. I dream in plots and characters. I hear lines of dialogue in my head when I'm washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, organizing my budget. I can't write at the moment but maybe I feel a little comforted that it's there waiting for me. That one day, when the right words whisper through my mind I'll jot them down. And eventually they, and I, will add up to a whole.
For now, I keep tinkering, fight back the imposter syndrome, and maybe write some blog posts about burnout and how devastating it can be when you don't listen to your body.
And yet, when I hit my lowest point. Complete depression and burn out rolled into one I hid away. I pushed harder. I forced myself to do more, be more, work more.
Some of you probably know what happened next...I made things WAY worse.
Why did I push knowing it was doing more damage, causing more harm?
Because I'm a writer. That's what I do. I couldn't admit to myself that even staring at my office door made me feel like a balloon was precariously inflating in my chest. That the thought of letting one more single person down was another invitation for one more rejection. One more author friend deciding I'm not worth the effort, or the patience.
I get it. I dropped so many balls over the past year. Don't get me wrong, life hasn't been bad. I married a man who understands me on a level I don't even understand myself on. He's incredible. A tiny part of my brain tells me I don't deserve him every single day.
At the same time, I yearn to write. I've been reading, jotting down ideas, playing with little tidbits here and there but I haven't been able to write anything. It makes me feel like I've got phantom limb syndrome. I'm missing a part of my soul right now. How can I give all of myself to my loved ones, to my life, when something so vital to who I am is missing.
I've been trying to work on seeing who I am without writing. That didn't work. I dream in plots and characters. I hear lines of dialogue in my head when I'm washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, organizing my budget. I can't write at the moment but maybe I feel a little comforted that it's there waiting for me. That one day, when the right words whisper through my mind I'll jot them down. And eventually they, and I, will add up to a whole.
For now, I keep tinkering, fight back the imposter syndrome, and maybe write some blog posts about burnout and how devastating it can be when you don't listen to your body.
