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Posts Tagged ‘depression’

I bet you thought I forgot about the blog again. While I admit it hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind, I promise I haven’t totally forgotten about it. I do want to get back in the habit of updating again, which means the pressure is on me to stick to it. This is what this is.

So what have I been up to? Partly it’s been a slightly soul-crushing apathy, either due to my depression or the medications I’m taking for my depression (oh joy). It’s hard to write when you don’t care about anything enough to get started. It’s hard to really do anything, because it doesn’t feel like any of it matters. Which leads into my next thing, which is that I haven’t done anything really important or interesting the last couple of weeks. I’ve been walking at the mall in an attempt to inject some physical activity into my otherwise sedentary life. I’m trying to write a silly fanfic to prove to myself that I’m still capable of actually producing fiction. Sometimes I go to the movies or watch one at home. I haven’t even been reading as much.

I’m not sure what my point here was supposed to be. Maybe explaining that my life is so boring as an excuse for not updating? Which is a pretty flimsy excuse, since I updated regularly in most of 2013 when my life was just as boring and depressing. (Even more depressing, since I was on crappier meds back then.) My biggest problem is that I make excuses. I didn’t get out of bed until nearly 1pm today because I kept finding excuses to ignore my alarm and curl up under the covers again. I don’t do a lot of things because I decide to refresh Tumblr or tab open TV Tropes instead.

Basically what I’m trying to say is that I am the queen of doing the easy, lazy thing instead.

I didn’t mean to turn this into an interrogation of my bad habits. This is what happens when I don’t have a set topic; I dive right into being self-critical.

I made a list of things I want to do this summer. Movies to see, TV shows to catch up on, plus some other stuff. It’s only sort of happening at the moment. I’m trying to catch up on Hannibal, since it’s just started its third season. It’s taking a while, since Hannibal is not the lightest of shows and thus not easy to binge watch. (This is more or less the reason why I haven’t finished Daredevil, either.) I’m five episodes away from being caught up, so hopefully I can cross that off my list here shortly. And that’s just one part of the list. And for some reason I’ve just now got this mad idea to watch 100 different movies over 100 days. Just because. And who knows, I might just do it, even though another one of my bad habits is setting goals I can’t possibly hope to keep.

This is what this is. I do things. Mostly they’re boring and unimportant. But I suppose you’re here because you’re interested anyway. I’m going to try to be better about updating here in the future. Expect more rambling posts like this one.

Also hopefully I’ll get my act together about Doctor Who reviews. Maybe.

(4/100)

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All things considered, I probably should not have done NaNoWriMo this year. I have just not had my head in the game as far as writing is concerned this year, and while my depression is usually in a tauntingly close holding pattern, it likes to swoop down on me when I least expect it. I was not in any fit state to write fifty thousand words of any story, but some pig-headed part of me insisted that I had to. This was my tenth outing; I had won every year previous to this, every year since I’d found out about NaNo and decided to join in. I had to do this. One more time if nothing else. For old time’s sake.

I wrote about my whole struggle to decide on here, as you may recall. I settled on a story–a rehash/rewrite of my 2008 novel, Luna, which I rechristened as Daughter of the Sun–and on November 1, I wrote…

…nothing.

This was actually pretty much how I sloped through the month. I would slack off, try to catch up and fail miserably, and then spend the next several days moping about how behind I was and how I was never going to catch up. If you look at my profile on the NaNo site, you will see that my word count rises in fits and starts, and only when I really wanted it to. (You will note that, in the end, I REALLY wanted it to.)

Looking back, I can’t even say what I actually doing with that time. I know I spent the vast majority of it in bed, either fooling around on the internet or sleeping or just laying there and feeling bad about everything I possibly could. This is what depression does, especially when you give yourself another thing to not do and to feel bad about not doing. Sometimes I opened up my novel and sort of looked at it, but I didn’t work on it. I occasionally lurked off to the library to write words in bursts of a thousand or so (by hand, even!), but as the end of the month drew nearer, I was stalled somewhere around 15k.

I don’t know what finally lit the fire under my ass. It was probably the floating spectre of FAILURE hanging over my head like the nasty sign it’s been to me since middle school. I have done my level best to avoid being A Failure for years, and I wasn’t going to let 15k be the best I could muster for my tenth NaNoWriMo.

So I wrote. And then I didn’t write for a couple of days.

And then I did that exact thing over again, and just for funsies I had a huge, depressing cryfest that didn’t help anything, because there’s just nothing like trying to write and not being able to because your body feels weird and the words aren’t coming, and the words that do come don’t fit together and your fingers won’t obey your thoughts. And so on. (Getting yelled at also doesn’t help.)

I wrote a lot the day before Thanksgiving, then nothing at all on the actual day–which would make sense, except that we didn’t actually have Thanksgiving dinner until Friday. (There was a scheduling snafu. Irrelevant.) And on Friday I wrote nearly ten thousand words.

I was at 36k at midnight on November 30th, and at 11:59pm, I had reached 50k. It was, in so many words, one hell of a day. I even had an underdog-y sort of moment with just a few hours ago, after I’d accidentally had one of my trademarked Accidental Naps and felt like I couldn’t surmount the words I needed to reach that much vaunted goal. And then I did it anyway.

There was probably a better way to write this, but since I’ve stopped keeping a journal (to my own dismay, believe me), I don’t really have a detailed log of my days. Things happened, and more things happened, and against all odds and some well respected areas of reason, I won the day.

And that’s all that matters.

(202/260)

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I still don’t know what to write, though at least this time I am writing it on my computer instead of in an dusty old notebook. But I said I’d do this every day, that I have to do this every day until the end of the year if I want to make this one thing I said I would do actually freaking happen.

But that doesn’t mean that anything that I write from now to the end of the year is going to be any good. (more…)

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I don’t know what to write, which is rather typical, isn’t it? I can’t even move my hands to type the proper words. What you last saw of me was so much like an ending that I am tempted to leave it be and run away until I reach the far edge of the world. I would like to start over, to move on, to do something different. I am perilously behind, but I can catch up if I write something every day. Even something little would keep this one thing alive, so that I can say I did something.

I want to write about NaNoWriMo but I am still not sure if I’m going to do it or not. It would be my tenth year running. It seems stupid to not do it, given that it’s my tenth year running. But I don’t know what to write. I feel alone, more alone that I did in that first year, when I had to wheedle my parents to even sign up, when I was too shy to post on the forums. It was just me and the event, and I flew through the whole thing, and it felt good.

But I only feel alone, and the task seems daunting instead of fun. So maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should give it up, even if it is my tenth year straight, and wouldn’t that be something to brag about? But I don’t have any ideas. I could do Luna or another of my all-too-plentiful ideas, but I don’t know if I’d make it through the month. It seems more likely that it would all fall apart, and what’s the point in trying, which is exactly what my depression would say to me about it, but we all know how good I am about doing the least interesting thing.

I don’t know. I’m not sure if I care.

This is another shuffling step forward, and I suppose I will do this if nothing else.

So.

(187/260)

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Giving Up

This is the story of how I decided to lay down and give up on almost everything. Although that actually sounds more depressing than it is. Possibly even more depressing than my last entry, which I’m sure you noticed was pretty effing depressing.

It’s just that every day, I look at the great big list of things I want to accomplish by the year’s end, and instead of feeling motivated I just want to climb under the covers and sleep for another few hours. It doesn’t help that it feels like I have no time anymore. I’ve woken up at or around noon for the last several days. I stay up until two and three in the morning, and all I’ve really done in the last week is power through a few books and write maybe a thousand words on a random short story.

So what do I do with the rest of my time? I play Animal Crossing, though not nearly as avidly as I did a couple of weeks ago. I play this ridiculously addicting piano game on my phone. I fiddle around on the internet. A lot of the time, though, I just sit there and I think about what I should be doing.

I should watch Doctor Who so I can start writing reviews again.

I should watch a movie. I should watch a Disney movie, an old movie, a favorite movie, any movie, it’s only a couple of hours, for god’s sake, it isn’t that hard.

I should make today’s cranes.

I should work on a puzzle.

I should write a blog post about something. About Hannibal, about writing, about my recent obsession with America’s baby pandas, about something.

I should turn on the Wii and exercise, just for the sake of getting up and moving.

I should write. I should work on that TRON fanfic, or that Doctor Who fanfic. I should work on Luna, or maybe another story entirely. I should work on Lena’s story, or Tate’s story, or Andira’s or Maggie’s or Rose’s or Mackenzie’s or Nora’s or anyone’s.

I thin all of these things at the same time, and I manage to find excuses for almost all of them. Sometimes it’s an issue of time (if I watch a movie now, I can’t write or read or anything during it!), or just not feeling inspired. Which is the lamest of excuses for not writing, and often makes me feel like I don’t have the “it” or “ness” you need to really Be A Writer.

I don’t know how to do everything I want to do with my time and my life. I do the lazy things because it’s easier, because they don’t involve getting up and working. It’s so much easier to do nothing, and it’s easier than it’s ever been, because the only consequence is me not doing what I wanted to do. No one else cares. And yeah, it’s possible that not doing what I really want is a major contributing factor to my general melancholy. And you’d think that, knowing that, it would make it easier for me to start doing those very things, in the interests of securing my own happiness.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes it harder, which makes it even easier to stay in bed and play video games and refresh Tumblr.

I don’t want to be responsible for my own happiness. That’s a daunting enough task on its own, and it’s terrifying if you’re me.

And maybe it makes me a piece of shit for doing the easy, lazy thing, but I’m not sure that I really give a damn.

(186/260)

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(this has been a post)

It was easier to understand when I thought it was just PMS. But here I am, right in the thick of it, my hormones mostly settled down, and I’m /still/ miserable and depressed and unmotivated. I take one look at my actually rather short to-do list, and I go ahead and literally sleep on it for four hours. I feel like so much of a failure I want to cry. And all this in spite of the expensive meds, the biweekly therapy, and the generally true idea that this is better than it was, say, a year and a half ago.

There comes a point in a girl’s life when she starts to think the problem with it all is her.

That’s the general impression I’ve gotten, anyway. Just the general gist of everything from everyone I’ve dared talk to about it. Everyone else is working so hard. I have to start working hard. Therefore, if I’m still miserable, it’s my fault for not working hard enough to not be miserable.

I realize this is probably the depression talking, but this isn’t some illogical stupid thing, because as far as I can tell, it’s true. Instead of doing things, instead I play video games and screw around on the internet. Instead of getting off my ass and maybe getting out of the house, I stay inside and do the aforementioned nonsense crap. Instead of doing easy, simple things like writing up blog posts, or watching movies, or writing, I just faff around, because it’s easy and it doesn’t challenge me and no one gives a damn one way or another, right?

It’s my fault I’m stuck. It’s my fault I’m miserable. If I tried harder, things would be better, but I’m not trying at all.

Maybe I’m wrong. But right now it’s the only thing that makes any sense. And I hate myself for it.

(185/260)

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Sometimes I wish I could make my daily life a bit more interesting. At the moment, it’s really not, to be honest. I’m still unemployed. I spend the vast majority of my time alone, because everyone else I know (i.e., my immediate family) has to work or go to school or both. I try to do things, but most of the time I end up poking around the internet in a dull loop and playing video games (i.e., Animal Crossing) for hours on end. Sometimes, to shake things up, I go to the library to work for a few hours.

I am not a very interesting person, and I do not lead a very interesting life. To be honest, I’m surprised that people are interested in hearing about my daily life (I assume so anyway, since those posts garner views the day of if nothing else). My Doctor Who posts do me far better, and if I was more eloquent and opinionated, I could probably just turn this into a blog just about Doctor Who, or a film and television blog. That would probably get me views and traffic and all that shiny stuff, not that this blog actually makes me any money.

But I keep talking about my uninteresting life anyway. I suppose I’m just a little selfish and self-involved. I don’t have much else to talk about anyway, and when I do, I usually downplay it as not being that interesting after all. These are problems about myself that I am trying to work through in therapy, not that I’m sure that’s going all that well, either.

It also doesn’t help that a lot of what I do is kind of boring. I watch films and things. I write stories. These are not the stuff of riveting blog posts, let’s be honest here. Most of what I watch I don’t end up reviewing anyway, and most of what I write I can’t post because I’m hoping to get it published one day. So the things I do stay under wraps and unseen, and I’m left sitting here with very little to talk about.

This kind of plagues me out in the real world of real life, too. I swear I have come from a family of inveterate chatters, and it’s always awkward at family gatherings to sit there and not talk and feel left out for not talking. This is followed by feeling bad because I feel left out, and then feeling bad because I feel bad, because if I would just open my mouth and say something everything would be better, and it’s basically another iteration of the sneaky hate spiral that ruins my everyday life. I want to be more interesting, I want to do things and pick up stories to tell in the car or at those family dinners in California. And yet then again, I’m horrible at telling stories out loud, so maybe everyone’s just better off if I keep my mouth shut.

I have no idea what the point of this post is, except maybe to be something to put on my blog while I keep putting off watching “Victory of the Daleks.”

(181/260)

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