Writing, Depression, and Trust

I was surprised earlier this week by the sounds of cardinals and wrens in the morning. My husband and I alternate taking the dog out like it’s a child that needs attention because, well, he can’t let himself out and we both fight to be able to sleep well. But the sun was shining a little brighter, and suddenly I was grateful to hear the birds. My heart leapt when I noticed in the midst of mulch and detritus, snowdrops peeking through! Spring is close.   

The last two weeks have been tough. Between travel, a visit to the emergency room with my husband (fortunately he’s fine), and the depression monster taking over, I knew I needed to give myself a break.

I’ve had to learn to distinguish between my different types of depression. Reactive? Meaning, a normal response to some shit situations? Sudden hopelessness? Not the kind that a lot of people might be feeling if they’re feeling the steady flow of attacks this administration is making on pretty much everyone except billionaires. So then comes the next series of questions: how am I eating? how’s my sleep hygiene? what kind of rest do I need? What is my body asking for? Usually, it’s asking me to let go of perfection.

I haven’t touched my manuscript in two weeks because I started adding something new, a new fresh kind of painful insight that required yet another break. Because the truth is, and I feel strange admitting this, for me writing memoir has been a practice in ripping myself open and sewing myself back up again in a matter of hours. All through ritual — prayer, lighting a candle, tethering myself to the present through a snack and movement. This is time consuming and with a day job, leaves me little choice but to make notes, journal, and work slowly. It’s hard not to beat myself up when the active revision isn’t happening. When the clarity for a statement comes while I’m in the shower, and I have to jot it down on my phone not knowing when I’ll be able to revisit it or apply it, test it out.

But I have to trust I’ll get to it. The alternative is giving up, and though roughly once a month I threaten to give up writing, I know that’s not going to happen. Because this is a part of the process. Or at least, a part of my process for now. Write rigorously, read everything, rest, make space for whatever may come, get frustrated, threaten to quit, and then slowly, start back up again.

I often tell people that “life happens” but when I say that I’m really talking about the struggle with my mental and physical health. “Life happening” looks like struggling to get out of bed or a loved one threatening to hurt themselves, looks like me needing to sleep longer and doing less, it looks like back pain and headaches that can turn into migraines and needing to work from bed, making sure I take medicine and supplements. It’s finding the right music for the day, the right book, the right poem. It’s forgiving myself for not writing for a couple of weeks and being late, suddenly waking up and being stunned by the sunlight, the bird songs, the sight of something growing out of the thawing ground. 

So I hope you’re able to listen to your needs. To hear what your heart and body is telling you in order to keep going. Cycles change, but if we pay attention, we can figure out when our time will come to jump back in.