I tend to go through these waves of crises. Which can turn into hours a day of staring at a white wall, currently decorated with a single post-it that has my security code for work on it. Like a total nutter, I had the numbers memorized the instant I was given them, but there they are. This haunting reminder that the 9 -5 manages to have the upper hand for another day.
And as I (mentally) yell at myself for poor choices, I can’t seem to get a word in. And I propel myself into a state of doom, “What does it matter if I write or not? The world is going to blow up in 5 billion years because our sun will burst AND ALL OF MY WORK WILL BE FOR NAUGHT.”
I know there is a skilled discipline and hunger for venturing forward, but my discipline is plagued by that trap of darkness that thrusts its hand out from under the bed and holds onto my ankle. There is a daily struggle to kick it off. Sometimes I win and I manage to make it through the day unharmed. Other days it’s victorious having latched on in the middle of the night, and now I’m somehow stuck in bed, doing my best to breathe well under the weight.
I keep thinking about Toby Maguire trying to rip off the black spiderman suit at the top of the tower as the bell’s going off.
It’s just this impossible task of getting it to go away.
And suddenly, it all washes away. And it’s 3 AM, and I have to clean up whatever mess is around because I’ve been busy fighting off the demons all day, I haven’t had a chance to take care of myself more. And sleep is for suckers, and for four days I’m up without so much as a nap, and feel like superwoman, and I can do anything.
But the pages still remain blank, and when I realize this, my shoulders hunch, and the wheel of perpetual doom starts to turn causing the other gears to turn and I collapse in exhaustion and total despair.
I do wonder what it’s like to not have this parasitic creature nearby. When I was little, I used body image as my excuse for jealousy, because so did every other little girl. But, that’s not it. It’s not body image, it’s the lack-of-depression factor. It’s the lack of having a reason to be depressed factor.
I did manage to write a bit this morning, and the creature hissed at me from my closet the whole time.
And as I dressed for work, I noticed the corner of the post-it is sticking out a bit, the stickiness wearing off slightly, weakening how well it can hold onto the wall.