Posts Tagged ‘depression

22
Oct
19

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.

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09
Oct
19

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.

 

08
Oct
19

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

05
Oct
19

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

01
Oct
19

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!

KA Spiral no signature

28
Sep
19

Writer’s Block

Suffering from it quite badly at the moment. Between physical and mental health – which are always a factor, obviously – and too much exposure to other so-called “humans” on the internet, I’m left feeling paranoid and paralyzed, unable to fill the white space because it feels like anything I type is going to be considered “problematic.”

Part of me is apathetic. Another part of me is chasing itself in circles trying to decide how to appease all potential readers and avoid being punished for trying to tell a story. Neither is capable of putting worthwhile words on the paper. A third part is digging its nails into its arms and ripping little bits of flesh off due to the anxiety and rage inspired by the other two and the social climate that inspired them.

Hopefully the mental storm passes soon. I have shit to do, and I don’t want to leave Ms. Crowe and Dr. Gale staring awkwardly at one another, picking nits and tapping their feet, while they wait for their god to return from his crisis of conscience and resume having the hubris to write about female characters despite being a cishet white male.

Hope everyone else’s weekend is going well. Until next time, folks.

KA Spiral no signature

04
Sep
19

Sleeping in

The harsh sound of ducks quacking interrupts the soothing voice of the British woman who has been talking to me for the last two hours. She’s currently telling me that she’d like me to touch the tip of my nose, then reach out and touch the tip of her finger repeatedly.

Both sounds come from the same place. My phone, lying on the bed. The ducks are just the alarm. I’d set it when I decided to take a nap, thinking it might improve my mood or give me the energy to do something besides watch television. An hour, I’d said. The hour was up, and then some.

I didn’t care. Without opening my eyes my thumb finds the right spot on the screen. The ducks stop; the British woman and her eye exam resume.

“Get up.”

The voice isn’t unexpected. It also doesn’t matter. I know if I look to the doorway, where it had come from, the owner of the voice wouldn’t be there, but I can picture him anyway: tall, pallid, thick mop of black hair, round glasses. A cigarette dangling from the corner of a scowling mouth, a tablet or laptop under one arm, and a camera in his other hand. Looking pissed because he had places to go, things to do, problems to solve.

“Don’t listen to him. Stay here. It’s better this way.”

That voice is more familiar. It’s comforting. Like the first, I know the owner isn’t actually there, but can picture him, too. Lying there with the covers pulled over his head, eyes closed, phone on his chest, listening to the British woman and ignoring the ticking of an internal clock as it wasted away. Seconds, minutes, hours, they didn’t matter to him, and he told me it shouldn’t matter to me, either.

I know them both very well. After all, they were me. The sleepy one was the one I listened to the most, though. No matter how much the angry, anxious one yelled – and he could yell plenty, something I envied about him – I could turn his volume down to nothing, listen to the tired one, and just stay here. I might feel bad about it later, and it might make the other one angrier later, but it doesn’t matter. I know if I stay here long enough, soon I can stay forever, and then it’ll all be darkness and soothing voices. No more shouting. No more fighting. No more pain.

“I said. Get. The. Fuck. Up.”

My eyes shoot open, and something is different. I can tell it’s been a while since they last had anything to say; my sense of time is broken, but not completely gone. But that’s not the problem. Time skips like that at the norm these days.

The problem is that he’s straddling me, his face inches from mine, teeth – the few he has left, anyway – bared at me, ash from his cigarette dropping onto my forehead. Somehow that detail, feeling the little flakes drift down from the glowing red eye of his cigarette and tickle their way across my forehead, my check, into the crease of my neck and give me the shivers like the thought of a bug crawling across me, is what convinces me this is real. Somehow, some way, he’s real, and he’s tired of putting up with my shit.

The camera and tablet aren’t with him; I imagine they’re still sitting by the doorway, carefully laid aside so they wouldn’t be damaged. He – we – always cared more for our things than ourselves. But everything else is the same; the Coyotes hoodie, the split left knee of his jeans, the jingling of his keys against the lighter and aspirator in his pocket, the dangling tail of the My Little Pony lanyard hanging loose and flopping as his lays hands on my shoulders and shakes me.

My head slams into the headboard, creating a white flash across my vision. When it clears, he’s still there, lips curled and eyes slitted in the same expression I’d seen in the mirror a hundred times before I took nails to flesh and clawed out a chunk of my own arm or my back.

“Go ‘way. Lemme ‘alone.” That was Sleepy. I don’t look. I’m afraid to look. It’s bad enough seeing one version of myself looking ready to kill me; I don’t want to confirm the physical reality of a third. Angry doesn’t have those problems. His head snaps to the left, he lets go of one of my shoulders, and a moment later I hear what sounds like a thundercrack and a mewl of pain. Blood begins to trickle from the side of my mouth, and Angry’s, and why not? What happens to one of us happens to all of us.

“You shut the fuck up. Christ. I’m trying to save us, here.”

Despite the rage and his actions, there’s a note of sincerity in his voice, curious but harsh care that somehow makes it worse. His attention comes back to me, locking eyes. His left hand rummages in his pocket for a moment and comes up full of pills. I know them well. Antipsychotics, antidepressants, antihistamines, steroids, cough suppressants. The things that keep me – us – alive and well. At least as well as we get, anyway.

His face doesn’t change from the bizarre mixture of care and hate as he hooks the index finger of his left hand into my mouth and forces it open. I try to talk, to yell at him to stop, but nothing comes out. He shoves the pills into my mouth, then clamps his hand over my lips and pinches my nose shut with the other hand. I don’t have a choice; I swallow.

“Good. Now get up. And don’t make me do it again.”

I blink, and he’s gone. For now. I glance down at the bed, and see three dents in it; one to either side of me, circular. Knees. To my side, a larger oblong one. The shape of a body.

That’s it. That’s enough. For today. The taste of the pills – the steroids, especially – is still on my tongue, stinging and rancid, and there wasn’t anything that would get rid of it except for chugging a soda and taking a hard drag on my vape box. The taste was shit, but it worked great as a motivator… once I had it in my mouth, anyway.

Time to get up. No more sleeping in.

KA Spiral no signature




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