I sit unwashed and pajama-clad. The kids are gone, the cat is riding a skateboard around my kitchen. Bono croons in my ear thanks to my iPod. I am trying, determined and grim-faced, to write something, anything. Just a sentence. Please, God. Just a sentence.
Good job, kid. You’ve managed eight quasi-sentences; not pretty, not perfect but there they are – words on a page in a straight line, in English. Why the sudden struggle you ask?
Well for one thing, its Fall. As the weather cools, things tend to slow down inside my head. I swear I was born to hibernate – me ending up as a human was a boo-boo on someone’s part. I eat copious amounts of idiocy-inducing carbohydrates and think constantly about sleep. Thoughts and movements become sluggish. My husband should realize that my appearance at the gym last night was nothing short of miraculous.
More sobering: I’ve gone back on antidepressants. For anyone who has suffered from depression chronically, you know the medication can be as much of a curse as a cure. Apparently in order to boost mood the brain needs to come to a grinding halt. It makes no sense to me but there it is.
I have to say that the drugs have come a looooong way since I was last at their mercy. I remember being on Paxil one bitter Calgary winter. I was at the stove stirring something. In a near-stupour, I stirred that pot for an hour until someone gently took the spoon away and stood me in a corner. I was robotic but really not too concerned about it.
Nice. In those days, I was driving very small children around in snowy, icy conditions. It makes me shudder recalling how completely out of it I was. I didn’t write. I didn’t even think. The modern drug that I’m on now doesn’t make me quite as dopey but I am shite at parking the car suddenly. And I don’t care.
What I do care about is the fact that my creative tap has been shut off. The odd idea floats by but I can’t react fast enough to grab it and set it down on paper. The Novel is literally a chapter or two away from completion. I wrote a pivotal scene right before I went on medication. It was bad – it careened between happily-ever-after and desperate cruelty. Eesh. I’m afraid to even open the file.
I could finish it. I could wrap everything up in a neat, tidy bow and be done with it but I know it needs a substantial re-write. I know I’m not capable of doing it right now. Because I need a haircut and a nap, not necessarily in that order. It’s 9:15 in the morning.
What tidings will Winter bring?