As I recently mentioned, I've been in a blunt honesty vein lately, and I feel compelled to warn you that this post is a continuation of that. This post (or at least the next paragraph) is going to be an "overshare", or T.M.I. (Too Much Information) for some. "Too bad," I say. "Suck it, " I say.
I'm not going to mince words here: I've been depressed lately. Very much so. In fact, I've been in a pretty bad state since, say, March - for various reasons. My therapist seems suprised, in fact, that given everything I've been through in the past 4 months I haven't tried to off myself yet (but she never actually says that, I think it's bad form to bring up suicide in therapy). But don't worry, fearless readers, I'm on the mend. I'm turning the corner, so to speak, and opening the throttle as I head into the straightaway. This spring I've self-medicated, doctor-medicated, tried diet and excercise changes, and travelled - many times combing all of the above in some sort of hazy, chemical-infused trip into the surreal (i.e. North Carolina). Each works to assuage my despair temporarily, but sometimes the best healing force is time combined with a concrete plan of action (with a solid backup plan). I finally have both on my side, hence the rejuvenation.
Part of being depressed is a loss of all creativity. When nothing is important to you, your muse is impossible to hear. I've posted a lot of song lyrics lately, quotes from books I've finally been able to get through (thanks Paxil), and a few emo and melancholy rants, metaphoric essays, and positive-thinking empowerment speeches to try to get myself unfunked. But last week my muse came screaming back into my mind from whatever tropical island she'd been vacationing on, unpacked her bags, and wasted no time in feeding me inspired chains of words in the form of posts.
When I write, I slip into a sort of trance. I don't feel like I'm responsible for what comes out, rather I feel like an editor for some unseen force that takes over my mind and body and types shit out on my laptop. Most times I'll get inspiration for a post or a story or a screenplay when I'm riding my motorcycle. There's something zen and meditative about tuning out the rest of the world and focusing on staying alive at ridiculous speeds amidst the sound of rushing air and a roaring engine. Most of the posts I've made this week I wrote in my head while flying down the interstate then feverishly transcribed when I got to Starbucks or my deck and plugged back into the rest of the world. This particular post came to me in a flurry as I was writing an e-mail to my BFF Brian.
My new favorite writer once wrote about writing, lamenting that it is so fickle an art that it can't be forced. I can't agree more. Sure, I can sit down and force myself to write something, but it's never as good as the stuff that just pops into my head, sentences and phrases coming together on their own, rearranging themselves into a cohesive train of thought. She says she doesn't like reading her own writing, but I love going back and reading mine, because each time I marvel that it came out of my head. Not that it's especially wonderful, but because I don't remember writing it or thinking it - it's as if it was someone else. It's like driving home from work while you're on the phone - it's something that happens on a second plane of awareness outside of your ego or even superego.
Most of the great writers, Poe, Bukowski, Bunny, Keorac; most of them were alcoholics or drug addicts. Some both. There's a reason for that, and I think that reason has to do with depression. Chuck Palahniuk said in Diary: "Maybe people have to really suffer before they can really risk doing what they love." Maybe muses are drawn to lost souls, those of us who wander the earth looking and longing for a place to fit in. Or, maybe both creativity and depression are linked to intelligence, which would also make some sense.
Whatever the case, my muse has returned for now, and I intend to ply her with cookies and fruity rum drinks so that she doesn't get the hankering to return to whatever white sandy beaches she spent this spring sunning herself on. There are no guarantees though, because muses are fickle bitches and don't owe you anything. And they make a point of reminding you of that by disappearing at the most inopportune times.
