I’m going to be overly honest in this blog post, but I think it’s important. I’ve been in a horrific depressive slump since 17th January. How do I know the date? Because that was the day I finished my first draft.
I’ve had depression since I was a young teen (and I’m now coming up to my 30th birthday). It all stems from an instance of sexual abuse when I was 14, as well as what I think is a genetic disposition to the illness.
It’s the worst thing. I really feel like this is suffering – not the worst suffering in the world, but enough to make me contemplate taking my own life on a near daily basis.
I don’t know about anyone else, but being a writer with depression is tough. Writing is a solitary and difficult process anyway, but when you have depression, it feels even more difficult. The self-depreciation gets worse and worse. Every word becomes a stab to the heart.
“Look, this is awful. You’re a failure at this, just like you’re a failure at life.”
Painful. Utterly painful.
Why am I writing this blog post? I suppose it’s a call out, a way of screeching from the top of a mountain.
Depression is something that a lot of us suffer from, and I wonder if the proportion of writers with depression is higher than in other areas.
So if you’re a writer with depression, sound off with me. We exist. We suffer.
But we’re still here.