Literally Bored to Tears

Depression’s become a real deal lately

It’s been an unwelcomed visitor in my brain since this past Sunday afternoon. You can call it burnout or melt-down, or I threw a rod and my writing machine seized. Doesn’t matter what you call it or from what perspective you examine it, I experienced a complete and utter emotional shutdown.

It had been coming on for a while, this state of constant depression, and I knew it was coming. I knew the signs all too well. You’d think I would have learned how to deal with this since it’s happened to me several times in my career.

And yet, once again, I simply chose to ignore the feelings and kept pushing ahead.

Not the best decision I’ve ever made, but then I’ve made a shit ton of bad decisions in my life. At least with this one, I could have somewhat tempered the cataclysmic fall into the hole I’m in now.

The worst part of this situation is that this time, my depression has pushed me into the state where I don’t want to do anything at all.

And I’m literally bored to tears.

For almost a week, I’ve tried to read the work of some of the fantastic writers here, and it always ends up the same. I read the words and completely miss the message. Even worse, I don’t care. I don’t care what the message is or who’s telling it.

In fact, I discover now I never wanted to read it in the first place. It’s not because of the writer or the writing. It’s me. I don’t want to do anything. Anything.

Reading was something I did before the fall into the depression hole. Now it’s a habit I’m trying to force myself to do, because somewhere in the back of my brain I know I used to love it. Maybe if I continue to read I’ll find that love again.

But my brain just won’t let me care about anything because that would require intestinal fortitude my psyche is telling me I’ve recently depleted. Even worse, I can’t stay focused long enough to understand what the writer is saying. Less than halfway through even a one minute piece, I grow totally bored, quickly losing interest to the point I don’t care to continue.

Although several writers will cover a topic from different viewpoints I love to read about, at this point in my mental state they all seem to be saying the exact same thing (when they’re not) and my brain fogs up and of course, I click away in boredom.

Like I said. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to write. Speaking of. My writing?

Well, it’s taken a huge hit as well.

Since Monday morning bright and early I have posted the one story where I wrote I’d proverbially run out of gas, a silly assed refurbished piece (written long ago and dusted off) about beta readers, and produced one new piece.

This one.

Some of you may be scratching your heads telling yourselves hey that’s three pieces in five days. But for those who’ve tagged along with me on this two-year journey of mine, this limited amount of posting is quite telling.

It’s telling because in 2019 I wrote and posted over 400 pieces, and for the first five months of this year I wrote and posted two pieces a day. I had every intention of setting this house afire with my voluminous prolificacy.

After all, I’ve been called a writing machine. Man, I was so proud of that moniker, but that moniker was one reason (along with my foolish ego) I ignored all my personal mental warnings in the first place.

Once the limelight brushes against you even for a second, you find yourself suddenly wanting to chase the hell out of it.

And chase it I did.

Until I didn’t.

With the previously mentioned publishing pace in mind, I should have written and posted twenty-two pieces so far in June. Uh, nope. I wrote fifteen pieces and then the wheels fell off my writing bus.

I’ve really tried to write again since then, but it’s just like my reading of late. Halfway in I lose my train of thought, and rather than struggle to find the path again I just give up and step away.

I’m literally bored to tears and don’t care if I write or don’t. Like I said earlier, I don’t want to do anything anymore. Writing this piece is hard enough. I’ve already stepped away from it ten or eleven times.

I’m not even sure it will make it to you, fellow writers, and readers. Because after finishing it, pushing it through the editing process, and getting it to the final draft, I’m certain I’ll grow bored with it.

Right now I’m bored with everything.

When that happens just like yesterday (when I killed a piece) I’ll review it another hundred times before I come up with the gumption to do something with it.

Like, delete it.

The thing about me and this depressive wallow-fest I’m currently experiencing, is I’ve had several writer friends of mine reach out to me after reading my “swan song” post this past Monday.

Each in their own way, telling me I’d be an utter loon to quit now, reminding me of all the stories I’d written, even shouting out to the entire community telling everyone what a good writer I was.

It touched my heart to see how much they genuinely cared for me as a person and a fellow writer, each connection completely unexpected and unsolicited. But I’m telling you, and you can make bank on this. I do not ever want to go through what I’m currently experiencing as a means of gaining any kind of recognition.

Not this way. Not feeling like I currently do. Not caring about my JOB, my writing, my reading, my editing responsibilities. I just want to turtle up and have it all go away. Go away so I can breathe. Go away so I can think.

JUST GO AWAY.

But it all won’t go away, and I know this. For me, and it probably won’t work for others, there is only one way to combat this. I have to push through these feelings and concentrate on my reading again. I have to pick up the damned pen and start writing again. Doesn’t matter if it’s shit or not, I need to write it.

It’s as my lovely wife told me last night. I have to turn this all over to a higher power (and stop yanking it back) and think about why I started writing in the first place.

Baby said I needed to dig deep and find the one single reason that spurred me to become a writer in the first place. Then she said, “and this time baby when you find it again, you need to concentrate on nothing but that. Hold on to it for dear life, and keep concentrating on it for the rest of your writing life.”

You know what folks? She’s the smart one in the family.

*If you’re actually reading this it’s probably because I examined it for the hundredth time then thought, “ah, why the hell not? What’s the worse that could happen?”

Thank You So Much For Reading

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