For the better part of two years, maybe more I have been struggling with depression. It’s never been terrible to the point where I cannot write, but for the past seven to ten months… it has. I have had writer’s block in the past but this is something new all together. And only on rare occasions do I get an insight into my mind guiding me to write something.
I have started to say my depression and my inability to write is because I am unbalanced. I am not one with myself.
. . .
There is a hundred and eighty-five days before my 20th birthday. From now till then I am hoping with every ounce of my desperation, I become balanced. My self again. But what me will be there when I am balanced? I haven’t known myself that when I look into a mirror, what’s recognizable is a shell. This physical being people see and touch.
The personality. The soul. My essence. I am not familiar with this part of me. It’s been so long since we’ve known each other. She is hiding from me. And I guess, I have to find her like other people try to find themselves.
Which brings me to my next question. How in the hell do I find something I cannot see? Do I read a book or a multitude of books? If so, what genre? What author? Do I drop everything and everyone and go out on a quest? And if that’s the case; I’ll be lost the rest of my life because I do not have the money to travel. Do I write until I find myself in my writing? Or pray to a God I do not trust?