Salutations Ya’ll,
I’ve struggled with this blog for three months. As writers we learn to cut to the bone. The more of us we put into our writing the more realistic, the more impactful. So, we bleed for a living. We watch our thick black blood form letters on a page and marvel in the art of the written word. We do not do this for entertainment alone. We want to touch lives to change the world in some small, but noticeable way. We want to leave our mark.
When I discovered literature, I also discovered kindred spirits. I was drawn to the writings of those like me. I did not realize it at the time, but it was because you cannot be a writer without writing yourself. So, when I found the dark and desperate Poe, or the great Sir Auther Conan Doyle, and my dear Kafka, I found my family. We are drawn to our reflections, not out of vanity but loneliness. Mine was one of pain, observation, and isolation. I didn’t know how to breath without hurting.
We often wonder if madness and art are connected. We see genius and pain married in the beauty they create. It teaches us that greatness requires darkness. We forget that it can come from light, from love as much as hate, from friendship as much as animosity. We let the darkness swallow us because we think it makes us great. Somewhere along the way we think we are defined by the darkness we inhabit, and we justify it by pointing to the greats in our field.
I did something over the last few months I never thought I would do. I sat in an office and told someone I don’t want to struggle to get out of bed anymore. I don’t want to be defined by the darkness. I want to find value in me.
Those around us who do not struggle with depression can’t understand why we are so unhappy. We are just pessimistic. We let them believe that. There is nothing they could say that brings us strength or will guide us to the light. We don’t ask for help because we don’t need it and if we did, they have none to offer. We have no value outside of what we can provide.
I don’t know if you can be a writer without having experienced pain and loneliness and desperation. But I am coming to learn you can be a writer without keeping yourself there. So, write and live, and don’t be afraid to ask for help. There is no reason to live in the darkness.
