It feels weird to write again. It’s been over 2 years since I have shared anything on a blog. 2 years, 2 months and 19 days to be exact.
A lot can happen in 2 years.
I read a lot of books, worked a lot of work, dreamed a lot of dreams, gained new interests, dealt with depression, anxiety and finally saw my grandmother after 17 years.
I feel like I’ve grown out of this writing thing.
Where have I been the last 2 years? Who wants to read what I have to say? I’ve been so brutally honest in the past that is has caused a lot of trouble and hurt people needlessly.
Depressed that’s what?! Depression is a dark scary monster. It has sucked nearly all the words out of me, leaving my soul bare. My creativity has suffered a slow and painful death. It has taken a very vital part of me. I feel bad if I say I am a writer.
I choose to rescue my writer self. For weeks in my journals, if I can focus enough to write, (depression makes it hard to focus on anything) I keep writing to myself:
“I need to write more.” “I have to write more!” “My writing is suffering.” Etc.
I choose to fight back and tell myself that I can write again, I can beat the darkness that is draining me. The fact that I am starting to produce words again in some form is positive sign. I can slowly feel myself get better. It’s a work in progress. I am healing.
P.S. Haben sie mien do do gesehen?