Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Silence is not always golden

I've been going back and forth with this post. I don't know where to start or how to begin. One minute I want to press publish. The other I'm pressing save and pushing my laptop away from me like it's a monster.

I'm typically very reserved and quiet. I watch from the sidelines. But I think that it's very important that I be honest with all of you.


An Autobiography in Five Chapters 
Chapter One 
I walk down the street. 
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 
I fall in. 
I am lost. I am helpless.
It takes forever to find a way out. 

Chapter Two 
I walk down the same street. 
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 
I pretend I don't see it. 
I fall in, again. 
I can't believe I am in the same place. 
But it isn't my fault. 
It still takes time a long time to get out. 

Chapter Three
I walk down the same street. 
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 
I see it there. 
I fall in ... it's a habit ... but my eyes are open. 
I know where I am. 
It is my fault. 
I get out immediately. 

Chapter Four 
I walk down the same street. 
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 
I walk around it. 

Chapter Five 
I walk down a different street. 

~Anonymous


Esh.
Even as I read over it I know it sounds a bit heavy handed. But I've been in a major rut. In more ways than one. I won't bore you with the gritty details but writing was one of them. I always take a break from writing after having a baby. I find that it clears my head and gives me wonderful bonding time with my new loved one. But this time, I got cocky because after Baby Read was a few months old, the words were not coming, at least not typed out. But they were there. I could just picture them floating in my head yet something was blocking them, making it impossible for me to catch them. 

At one point I pushed away all my WIP's simply because my heart wasn't into it.

I kept waiting for my spirits to lift. But that never happened. If my lack of confidence was the first clue then pulling away from my family and friends was a close runner up.

I pulled away from them intentionally. I felt like a siphon that was sucking up their energy. They didn't hang up the phone or end a conversation feeling upbeat. Instead it was the opposite.

I continued pushing them away, and tried to give my manuscripts everything I had. If my end word goal one day turned out to be 50, I had to learn to be okay with that. If it was 500. Even better.

But inside, I felt like I was losing it. The best way to explain it (and as I told my husband)  was that I was a walking contradiction. I knew I needed to sleep but I couldn't. I knew I should take a break and relax with the kids but my kitchen had to be spotless or I just had to run. It felt like I had to keep moving. This kept building and building up. Before long it became too much.

I have a husband who works long hours and five kids who depend on me. Push aside the writing, the words, the characters. My family comes first. I had to seek treatment and fast.

To be honest, I slightly cringe at the word treatment because that means that something was wrong. And I hate to admit that something is ever wrong. But something was.

In the end I spent two weeks away from my family in a facility similar to Fairfax. How apropos for the writer who created Fairfax. But this wasn't fiction. This facility was filled with real people. Real problems. It was reality where you were forced to confront your problems. In a way, there's a sense of freedom there because the people you're sharing a room with or walking past in the hallway all have problems. Who are they to judge?

Through treatment (and doctors of course) I realized I'm manic depressive and have panic disorder.

If you're like me, the first thing you picture when you think of manic is the two white masks, one laughing and the other sad. But I'm learning that it's so much more than wearing one mask for a few weeks, up to a few months. Only to switch it out for the other. What goes on behind the mask is the worst. It feels like your psyche is breaking and your so afraid that it actually will and it will be irreparable.

It's a situation that I never thought I'd be in or telling you about. But I think it's important to be honest to you. So if you've sent me a message, a text, comment, or tag and haven't replied. I'm sorry.

Slowly but surely I'm getting back into the swing of things.

And yes, that includes writing. :) But I'm taking my time. I could rush and give you all a book. But it wouldn't be it's best.

Until then, I want to leave you with a quote from John McManamy that rings true:

We excel at wearing the mask. We fool our friends, our loved ones, our colleagues, our doctors, even. Deep down inside, however, we are the crying clown, our souls in torment, our psyches in a thousand pieces.