Struggle

Lately, I’m struggling.

Everything just seems harder. Life is like I’m swimming in slow motion through space. The air around me feels like water. Getting up in the morning happens, but I don’t want it to. Biology eventually forces me from the bed. Not like I was sleeping much there anyway.

This is one of those times throughout the year when the ghosts of my life assail me. Many of the friends I’ve lost in life passed away around this time. Memorial Day hangs like a specter over my head reminding me of friends long gone in war. The news and social media will talk about the “ultimate sacrifice” and honor them as heroes. I will remember them as little more than kids who will never return to mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, children, and an assortment of friends.

Writing is hard too.

I love my work. Always have. Writing is something that has carried me through the chapters of my life, shown me a way to communicate with a world I feel distant from, and provided me a means to explore the things I’ve been through. Language is magical. Stories are among my favorite parts of the human experience.

But lately looking at my pad and pen just makes me tired. My computer screen laughs at me when my back is turned. The notes for my novel sit there, resigned that this will be another day added to their long journey for completion.

These are the days I start eyeballing cardboard boxes in my closet. Gauging them for size. Hoping that one of them will neatly fit everything in and deliver it to the curb the next garbage day. Digital files are safer. I don’t have the energy to delete them.

My days now are a matter of going through the motions.

I’ve dealt with these issues my entire life. My treatment protocols are pretty specific. Every morning I set an alarm for 7 am. I drag my carcass out of bed whether I slept well or not. My meals consist of healthy foods and my daily schedule includes plenty of room for exercise, walks, and meditation. I even sit down to write a bit. Usually, nothing more than a few sentences comes out, but occasionally something like this piece is born.

I go through the motions of my days. Some of them are easier than others. Still, I know these days will pass just like they do every year.

So why am I talking about it?

Why sit down and pen a piece about my struggle? No one wants to read your journal. At least that’s what the productivity gurus and success mavens tell you. They tell you that no one needs to know the sloppy details of your life. No one wants to hear you complain.

Instead, you need to create value.

That value is seemingly created by an endless stream of lifestyle porn. Beach office pictures, tips to success, and guides on how you can read 1,000 books a year and live your best life all marching across the screen for your positive enjoyment. Your focus as a writer, so they say, is on creating that value that keeps people coming back for more. It’s a distinct drug for a general audience. A mob gorging themselves on success mythology who will endlessly visit your quick shots of positivity and help you cash checks.

So why am I talking about my struggles?

Because they’re real. Because I’m not the only one right now struggling to get out of bed in the morning. I’m not even the person suffering most in this world. There are struggles, like addiction, that I have witnessed from the sidelines but never had to tackle myself. People hurt every day.

And we should talk about it more.

I live in the United States, a nation with a tragically deep compassion deficit. It’s a place where so many are dreaming of their future success that we look away from other people by the side of the road. A place where individual liberty is the prize. This country is the birthplace of success porn, but it’s not the only market buying it.

Why am I talking about my struggles?

Because I believe we need more compassion in the world. Compassion, that beautiful reflection of unconditional love that only occurs when we open our eyes to the struggles of others. I’m writing about my struggle so people will know they don’t deal with this stuff alone. I’m writing so we can think about the daily lives of others instead of writing about mental health statistics and suicide rates, so maybe we can be proactive.

I’m writing about the struggles I’m dealing with right now so someone else will write about theirs.

Then someone else will write about theirs.

Then another….

And another…

And then someone will write about their small victories. Someone will tell the story of the little acts of compassion that made their day. They will write about kind words from strangers, the embrace of a friend, or the extra effort put forth by a loved one.

Those little things will add up and shine.

Maybe we will read more lists about small kindnesses you can perform for people who look like they’re having a bad day than best side investment tips from the gods of the 1%.

It could happen.

But the real reason I am writing this, the reason I will publish it, is for the other writers who are struggling. Whether now, in the future, or the past, someone out there is dealing with something similar. They have problems getting out of bed, writing words on paper, and just finding a reason to do more than lay in a haze all day.

And they don’t need to feel alone.

They don’t need to worry that this struggle ends something or makes them less of a writer. It’s not a lack of “resilience” or “grit” that has them struggling. Hell, the fact that they got out of bed is proof they have plenty of both.

I’m writing this because I’m a writer.

And it needs to be normal for us not to be okay and talk about it.