I am motivated by a desire to always “do the right thing.” And so my writing is suffering–because it is not the most pragmatic, “right” thing to do in these times. And I tear myself up about that, because writing is what makes me happy and fulfilled. And then because I am torn up with guilt and self-hatred and resentment and depression, I can’t focus on the writing.
If I could just get some good writing done, I know there is a bright spot here, a bright spot. I just want a few bright spots.
I’m cycling and sinking.
I feel horrible. I feel worthless because I don’t make as much money (not because I love money but because money helps take care of the household and makes me feel like I am carrying my part of the load) because I got cut down to 2 days of work/week…and helpless because in this economy there’s not much I can do to remedy that fact. I am the kind of person who will clean toilets for a living if I have to do so, but not without swallowing my immense pride. I am not having to clean toilets but I am having to swallow my pride in the face of the crumbling world, and I feel humiliation.
I know I am not the only one. But really, there’s no solace in that, no matter how much I feel like there ought to be solace in being one of many.
It’s a deep and internal humiliation, one that I won’t show, and I feel a growing depression (another thing I can’t and won’t show). Things are okay on the surface, but there’s a cloud growing inside me. It takes immense effort for me to get up and cook a meal. When an event/happening occurs, I look at the dark side. I am craving kindness but when I get thoughtlessness, it feels unusually cruel these days. I can’t shake things off like I usually do. Dark thoughts swim through my head. I have fading interest in my health. I have fading interest in food.
I think about “What is the question I ask myself” and I think, what can get me through the day?
I look at things I could do–but nothing looks really attractive. I feel like there is nothing out there.
I just want to run away and hide for awhile. Cry for a few days, maybe. Or not, maybe just sleep. Maybe ignore the world. Ignore my feelings. Oh wait, ignoring my feelings is what got me here in the first place.
Well. Maybe now is a good time to write a page of my character’s depression. What is the question my character asks himself?