“Last Year I Was Real.”

I haven’t always felt this way… I haven’t always danced with Melancholy with as much chemistry as I do now…

The way I have consistently summed it up in my brain is with this quote: 

“Last year I was real.”

Those words were meant to remind me of whatever it was that made me believe I was ‘real’. Bringing back whatever moments in which I was undeniably alive, when I felt more than I thought I was capable of feeling.

My memory fails to accurately pinpoint it, but there was a time when I started to feel underwhelmed with everything. It became exhausting to exist, to go to work, to have conversations… it felt as though someone had flipped my switch and drained me of light, making me feel dull. I’d simply go through the motions, feeling nothing real in the meantime. 

I stopped writing, painting, and generally I quit believing in myself. Even my desire to be awake faded, along with my desire to feel anything at all. Numb, is how I was describing it… 

“Deprived of the power of sensation.”

Numb…

 I lacked the feeling that had previously kept me going. So, I slept, and I slept, and I tried to make time fast forward to whenever it was supposed to somehow “get better”. In a sense, I was waiting for motivation to come knocking on my door and drag me out of this depression cocoon I had made for myself. 

Somewhere along the line, I failed to realize that I have to push myself in order to find the motivation… I have to know that I can’t claim myself as a writer if I don’t write, and I can’t end up ‘somewhere’ if I stay in this state of ‘nowhere’.

 It simply is not possible. 

However, those reminders don’t always work. I still find myself swaddled in the sanctuary of sadness even when I theoretically know what could benefit me. Why do I do that? Maybe it’s because this depression and I have a history. In some insane way, I find safety in sadness because it’s what I know. 

Whatever the reality of the situation might be, I’m painfully aware that I cannot simply fast forward until I no longer feel these things. I just have to get out of bed, and push myself to do whatever it is I need to do in order to merely feel alive. 

I started writing so that I could escape reality… but now I need it to bring me back, I severely need my creations to find me yet again.