Wednesday, September 12, 2012

The Secret to NOT Writing

Lori thinks I'm writing again, bless her heart. I only wish I were.

I do hunt and peck a bit, but ideas are slow in coming and never seem worth the effort once they arrive. A writer without ideas is not a good risk.  ;-)

You see, I went off my anti-depressant meds. It occurred to me that probably most of the adult female population of the United States are on some form of anxiety or depression meds. General practioners hand them out like candy. Four people in our office are on some form of this medication, from Paxil to Lexapro and all points inbetween. So I consider I've never been offically diagnosed as depressed; the pills were a stop gap during some horrific times. As it is for other women.

What that says about our sex (omg, I reread this and thought it was the other kind of sex. Let me rephrase: what that says about the female sex ...) is nothing I want to contemplate. What it says about me is that I hate being in a crowd or running with a herd of sheep (or cows, I'm not picky), and I was tired of being tired. So I took myself off it.

I kid you not, I was sleeping almost 24/7. When I wasn't at work I was in the bed and not just resting, I was sawing logs, honey. Just ask Lori. She kept waking me up when she called. *sigh* Always tired, always exhausted. Nothing got done, and all the sleep didn't help. I just wanted more.

For years I've been lacking energy, since I went through menopause and I couldn't figure out why. I'm long past menopause, but it continued to get worse. When I went on the anti-depressives after my son got arrested, I plummeted into a type of hell because all the symptoms doubled or tripled. Looking back, everything seems hazy, like I wasn't quite there when things were happening.

I have more energy now that I've stopped the medication. I can feel the difference. The dust bunnies are quivering in fear. Heh.

But now I have emotions. I can't talk about my son without crying, or at the very least tearing up. It's harder to push the whole situation away, put it out of my mind, pretend it never happened. And now I can't sleep - oh God, the irony!

So, I started to write a bit, but my mind is filled with 'what if's' and all the why's and, of course, the well known 'why does the universe hate me? why me?' stuff. Seems that whether I'm sleeping or not, the writing grinds to a halt.

I'm getting too old for this shit, but I don't particularly care for the alternative.

Eventually I'll get this 20,000 word short story done, but Lori will be old and gray and so will everyone else, lol.



  1. My happy pill is Celexa. It helps me get to sleep. Otherwise I'd be laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and counting every penny obsessively while afraid I can't pay my bills.

    We either power through or we retreat. I think you retreated. Now you're working on getting through it.

    I don't care if you write, even though I love your writing. I care about you.

    You're my pookie ookie.

  2. I'm glad you're feeling better. Or rather, feeling.

  3. Sharing the boat with both of you...and trying to work through it, one shaky, teeeeeeensie step at a time.