Wednesday, November 18, 2009


This is not a depression blog. I did start one, years ago, and lasted about a month before my mood changed again and I lost interest. When I started this blog, I saw it more as a creative outlet - a place to write, to learn about a particular style of writing, to record my life, to amuse my friends. I'm on medication now. I no longer walk around in that black fog. I'm good.


I sat down today to write an entry, knowing I need to write more often. I love writing, and I've always considered myself a good writer. I can churn out an essay at 4am the day it's due, and get an A. I can paint a picture with words. I can't sing, or draw, or run a marathon (or a mile), but I can write.

Except that as the fog has lifted, I've been writing less and less. I have a folder on my laptop full of pieces of writing - from completed short stories to 100-word snippets of imagery - that helped me in the worst times. They're not the most uplifting tales. They dealt with how I was feeling; they're about loss and death and suicide. They were a form of therapy, and I suppose I should be glad I can't write that anymore.

Don't get me wrong: I love being okay. I love being able to feel something other than despair. This year has been the best year in a long time. I don't want to be 'that depressed girl' again. I want to be normal.

But I am sad that I seem to have lost the urge to write. The tortured genius is a cliche, but studies have shown that it's often correct. Vincent van Gogh, Winston Churchill and Sylvia Plath all suffered from depression. And they all achieved great things. I'm no Plath, and I don't aspire to be her, but I do want to be able to enjoy writing again.

This was on PostSecret a few weeks ago. It's a better end to this post than I can come up with right now.