Rough Patches

Remember how I said I wanted to write a book about indie writing with a focus on the mental side of it, too?

I’ve had a rough few months. I’ve been looking for full-time work, but there doesn’t seem to be anything around here. It’s all part-time, no benefits, minimum wage, horrible working conditions. I’m either overqualified or under-experienced.

I’ve had a week or so of major anxiety – constant migraine kind of anxiety – over this new job. I’ve decided that I can’t do it. It’s not for me. I don’t care – I’d rather be poor and happy and writing every day than have slightly more money than I do now, work my ass off, and never write or sleep. No way. You can keep your American dream. I’d rather live out of my car and write at the McDonald’s.

I keep thinking how I’ll be living with my parents forever and be incapable of bringing dates home, because no ones wants to woo-hoo when Dad’s watching the Science Channel down the hall. I don’t, at least. And I don’t want a guy that does.

I want the funds to be able to live independently. And here comes those student loans, severely sucking my income.

On top of that, I’ve gained weight. On top of that, this boy I’ve gone out with doesn’t seem that interested, and here I’ve already fallen for him.

Then I get to see all my high school friends and classmates on Facebook, bragging about their kids or spouse, getting married or engaged – it’s a reminder that I’ll still be single by our ten year reunion (I’ve got until 2019, but it’s not looking good). I’d been content with the idea that instead of a husband, I’d have this awesome writing career – but it doesn’t look like that’s going anywhere, either.

“Pickin’s is slim,” I said, mimicking my father.

I’ve been wallowing. My alcohol intake has gone up. My sleep has gone down. My chocolate consumption has gone up, too. I’ve been wavering on the edge of a spiraling depression, the kind that sucks the energy and strength out of my arms and legs. Like, I couldn’t lift the laundry basket. I had moments where my heart felt like it stopped. My chest felt like this empty, endless abyss.

Until recently, I’ve never experienced the physical side of depression. I didn’t know there was physical effects.

Now, don’t worry, I’m not suicidal. Can’t hit the bestseller list if I’m dead, now can I?

Then there are all these books that are just as good as mine, if not worse, that are getting published; girls less attractive than me getting married; and idiots getting better jobs – what am I doing wrong? The common thread in all my failure is me. Me, not my books, not my looks. I’m the problem, says that voice in my head.

I know I’m not alone in my thinking. We all have doubts. We have all dreams that fade a little more every morning.

The key is to stay positive and keep that optimistic attitude, but it’s hard. That lonely shiver is hard to shake when you’re sitting by yourself and no one will answer your call. Luckily, I have books!