I know how my story ends.
I knew from the beginning and while the main events of the story have shifted, shrunk, morphed and grew, the end has always been a relative constant.
That is, until I got to the end of the second act of my second draft and realized what I wrote has changed the requirement for the beginning, thus changing the results of the end. Some things remain unchanged, who will be there and what will be used, for instance. But what must be said, well, that’s where I am floundering.
The last few weeks have been spent in the throes of anxiety and depression. This isn’t new for me, I’ve been coping with these things since I was very young and am lucky enough to only have cases that last multiple weeks every now and then. But this was my first severe case since I began, and after the month of April, which was incredibly productive, I crashed and burned very hard.
Writing is great when it’s great, but when you already are coping with a world of problems, and your mind is constantly informing you of your short comings and failures, adding “I can’t bring myself to write” to the list can be the worst feeling in the world. Just opening Word felt like a monumental task, and would usually reduce me in moments to an apathetic lump, rereading my previous work and trying to summon some emotion, even if it was anger.
I’m not quiet out of it yet, the momentum of April has been lost, and May was a quagmire. Just sitting here and writing this is an achievement in and of itself. I’ve struggled with the guilt of not working versus the fear of showing my work. I’ve neglected a blog that I was initially very excited to develop and my short stories are dwindling, falling to the wayside as I lose touch with the characters I created.
But I am relearning how to think, gently coaxing the neurons to fire towards dawn, towards the waiting horizon. So many synapse bridging dark gaps, connecting an unwanted passed with a future I’m trying to keep clean, unsullied by regret and worry. There was a time when the words were like rainfall, and I could step outside myself to be inundated with them. Fingers dancing so fast they nearly tangled up in themselves. The passed nine years have broken me, but I still see the pieces, and I know I can rebuild.