Writing My Way Out of the Fog

How writing is helping me find clarity

I scan over my living room in dread. It’s a mess, and I don’t know where to begin. I go to bed.

I don’t remember the last time I showered. I think I brushed my teeth today, maybe.

My work clothes crumpled in a pile on the basement floor, a reminder of the laundry I never put away. At least I washed it?

The garbage is full; I avoid the kitchen. The problem doesn’t exist if I can’t see it.

A once avid knitter — I have not even considered picking up one of my many unfinished projects in over a year.

I used to love my job. With the freedom to listen to audiobooks and podcasts all day while performing simple data entry, it felt as though I was being paid to relax. I haven’t touched my headphones in months. I can’t engage, can’t focus. My work is slipping.

Depression has taken over my life. The vicious cycle of feeling bad about feeling bad has sucked me in beyond escape.

Occasionally, I catch a moment of clarity. I call my doctor and request a referral to mental health. I even get the bathroom clean. It’s not much, but better than nothing. I have a long way to go. I reassure myself that every bit helps. Doing a little today and a little tomorrow will break the cycle.

I should make a list. A chore chart. I am organized beyond belief. Today is the day my life changes forever.

By the time my referral is submitted, I have returned to the fog. I don’t call. The referral is expired now.

I thought cleaning the bathroom was just the beginning of getting my entire life cleaned up. But the next day, I did nothing. By the time I have the will to try again, I will be starting from square one.

I only have myself to blame. I am aware of the resources available; they are many. Family members have offered to help me with cleaning and organization so I can start from a more manageable level. I think it’s a marvelous idea. I keep putting it off.

My only comfort is pretending the real world doesn’t exist as I’m glued to my phone.

Exhaustion and poor sleep are major contributing factors. Yet, I rarely sleep more than six hours a night. No, I have not made any attempts to change that.

The worse it gets, the later I stay up. Am I subconsciously punishing myself? Torturing myself? I already barely drag myself out of bed in time for work. Staying up later is not doing myself any favors.

Most frustrating is being so self-aware, so informed, and yet, utterly incapable of forcing myself to do anything at all to help myself.

I started writing. Finally.

I have always enjoyed writing. It’s engaging and thought-provoking. The clarity begins to return as I translate my mess of thoughts into crisp black and white on the screen. My situation suddenly feels real — tangible, and somehow, manageable.

No, writing is not going to clean my house or make me well-rested. Writing provides an outlet to analyze myself and my surroundings. Excessive thoughts — they don’t seem so overwhelming when condensed into coherent sentences in front of me.

Mindfulness at its finest.

I started writing my first article weeks ago. It sat an unfinished, unedited draft. A quiet wave of anxiety nagged at me. My writing is not worth sharing, not worth putting the little effort I have into it.

I finished that article yesterday and clicked publish for the first time. I wrote another. I posted it this morning. And now? I am about to publish my 3rd article in two days after putting writing off for weeks. I am throwing perfectionism to the wind and writing for me.

It’s too early to judge the long-term effects of my newfound therapeutic writing. Still, I genuinely believe it will prove to be worthwhile. I am not letting this moment of clarity slip away too quickly this time.

P.S. I finally scheduled that mental health appointment today too.