I am a writer. But I am now blocked.
I was writing a story. Chapter by chapter. Week by week. I have been unable to finish my work. I sometimes sit and stare at my unfinished work, mentally punishing myself for my inability to end the story.
The words are there. I cannot make them leave my mind and take their place on page.
I am depressed.
The depression is not the result of my not finishing the story I’ve written.
I suffer from depression. It has been a lifelong condition, it seems. My constant companion.
I grew up in a house filled with abuse. I was abused.
Was is the cause of my depression or would it have occurred regardless? My thoughts spiral along the path of self-doubt: the path that abuse sets before you. The thought pattern that abusers drive into you.
I have spent years fighting the grip of depression. I have sought help from counsellors and doctors. I am on medication. I daily wage a silent war to confront my darkest thoughts and challenge them, striving to change them into positive or at least, neutral thoughts.
After years of therapy and medication, I have come to the conclusion that I will never be rid of my constant companion. At best, AT BEST, I have learned enough techniques to keep the darkness at bay temporarily. Muted, but never eliminated.
Some days, it is a snicker behind my back, on others, a scream that drowns out all other thoughts.
Spending time with my friends helps immeasurably. With them I can laugh, and joke, and for a time, forget. Talking about it helps as well. I spent far too many years internalizing my suffering. Developing the strength to speak of my experiences has been liberating. Even writing these words down here has been helpful.
The wave of depression will break. The writing will continue. I will be myself again.
I am Ellis.