I used to suffer from depression and anxiety and S.A.D., etc., and all rather horribly until I discovered little miracle pill Celexa, but not even it can beat the slowly-building depression and anxiety coming from COVID. I have been coping relatively well from the average person, judging solely by the posts seen on social media, but these last few days, maybe even a week now, the personal impact it's having on me finally settled. That's not to say I haven't been following along with the news, constantly updating my friends, family members, and even strangers through the likes of Twitter, or mourning the deaths of strangers who have fallen to COVID. Now how I finally realized that this situation has been affecting me personally I couldn't say. Perhaps it's because I started realizing I didn't have a job to go to, or that my days which I used to spend writing suddenly became all about escapism through Sims—which is a really great form of escape, mind you!—or purposefully entering Forsworn camps and brutally killing them all. (Also a great reality escape.)
Then two days ago when I sat down to focus myself, to work on my latest book-in-progress—which I've currently finished writing and I'm now hoping to have edited and published by the end of May 2020—I found almost no joy in it. I say almost because I did still manage to get a few lines in and fill in a tiny plot-hole, and accomplishing those small goals certainly made me smile and feel a little good, but trying in the same fell swoop I started trying to rework a former chapter that I realized was very much lacking and I had to stop. Even the mere thought of trying to attempt to fix it was an exhausting chore.
My oxygen. My passion. My everything. The spark had seemingly died. But how could that possibly be? I curled into bed and wanted to do nothing but sleep. But I couldn't sleep. So I turned on the TV and watched the most depressing shows I could find. It was only when that started lifting my spirits I realized: I have a problem, and I am depressed. My typical solution is work; when I'm working I'm happy. When I'm writing I'm happy. But both had been seemingly ripped from me. And why?
To trace this, I thought about what I used to do. In between my spontaneous bursts of creative energy I sat down with people and worked on their manuscripts, or I was studying real estate. As all socialization had been cut off, I could do neither and I planted a seed that all was hopeless. To carry out these hopeless thoughts, I no longer saw the point in working. Why hold a job if there's no future because everyone dies of COVID?
After allowing myself a day and a half to wallow in these thoughts, I got an email from an online writer's group searching for—hey, copyeditors! One of my editing specialties, and probably my favorite one. I applied, found more opportunities, applied to those, and even though I'm waiting to hear back it was those small steps that gave me the boost of confidence I needed to overcome the slump.
That's not to say it won't return. It probably most maybe most definitely will. But what I've come to learn is that it's necessary to wallow in those moments of dismal despair, just as important in fact as pulling yourself out of them because there's no real point to wondering if there will or won't be a future. I'm living for now. And whatever my now is, that's what I aim to take advantage of. Even when it's bleak. Binge eating excuse, anyone?
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