Fire Cut With Smoke: Being A Creative With Depression

I've been listening to the song Pale Ghosts by Panopticon quite a bit of late. I'm listening to it as I write this in fact. It's a bleak, heavy song but one tinged with hopeful notes. I haven't a clue what the lyrics are, it's a metal song filled with growling vocals, but there is an undercurrent in it that just sort of calls to me.

It's been a good metaphor for how I feel as a creative these days.

Some days the words just flow, spilling onto the page in a torrent, and I move down my checklist of tasks one after the other with a feeling of intense satisfaction. On those days I am the fire of creativity made manifest. Those are the days where people ask 'how do you write so much?' and I swell a little bit with pride.

But those days grow farther and farther apart here lately. My depression is back like it hasn't been in years. I'm sure the isolation of Covid has a bit to do with it, as does the lack of vacation. My diet certainly isn't helping. But mostly it's just the chemicals in my brain, messing about in the wrong ways. I have absolutely no reason to be unhappy, and every reason to be gloriously joyful (my LadyFriend has been the primary reason for that), but science bows to no man, and sometimes the fire turns to a blanket of smothering smoke.

The ideas never slow for me though, so I just add them to the list. And as the list grows ever larger it feeds into the despair that I will never be able to achieve even a fraction of what I want to. I think about my mortality, and know that if I died tomorrow, from a creative standpoint no one would ever care. I have not built a legacy of any sort creatively, and as I age I continue to worry if I ever will.

I saw Hamilton the other day, and when they sang about Hamilton 'Why do you write like you're running out of time?' it honestly made me tear up a bit. I felt it down deep, because I write like that, when the smoke clears. Because I have to, if I am ever going to make it.

When the depression lays on me thickest, it's almost impossible to start new writing projects though. It's not a writers block, it's starting block. If I can muster the willpower to make myself open a blank page words can flow. It's just I struggle so hard to make myself begin. Take this blog as a perfect example. It took me about 3 days to build up the gumption to open up my blog, but now that I have the words are flowing. But this is just a blog post, nothing like the novels and novellas I want to be writing. If it takes that much just to start a blog, how much willpower does it take to start a novel?

With actual writing though (not blogs, not fiverrs, not silly little facebook stories), the stories that matters to me most like my novellas and books I've become so hard on myself. On the good days when fire is running down my fingers I can write and write, and never look back. When the pallid smoke of depression is heavy though, everything I write is terrible, trash, not worth the virtual ink it took to put it all down. I hate it, and that hate makes me stop. And once I have stopped the process of actually starting back has to begin over all again.

So I try to distract myself with other things. My shirts have been a good project for this. I am not a graphic designer, so I have been learning rapidly, all manner of new tricks and skills. Every little victory like that feeds into fire. And that feels good.

But then I try to sell them, and nothing happens. And that feels...terrible. This is not a plea for you to go out and buy a shirt, because honestly the thought a friend going out and buying a shirt out of pity just makes me want to throw up out of angst and self-loathing.

Objectively I know I am new at this, that the economy is trash, that it's going to take time. But as each day passes without any sales its a resounding indictment that my designs are just not good enough. It's an internal accusation what I can easily shrug off when my mind is right.

But currently my mind is not right, and it undoes any positive motivation my learning has imparted.

My books don't sell. My shirts don't sell. My games get downloaded, but don't sell. My blogs post unremarked. I generate content, but currently it seems not any that people want to buy for any reason other than they know me. Which while I will never stop being thankful for all my wonderful friends who support me, I refuse to make my 'living' off of my friends charity and pity even if I could.

Not-depressed me knows that I have been sitting on my best ideas, that they are getting edited, and one day soon those books will be out. That I will hit upon shirts that do sell great. That my games will spread. That one day I will master actually marketing in a real, tangible way outside of setting up at conventions and libraries. That the economy will eventually turn around.

But depressed me says I am just screaming into the void, and no one is listening. And I can't do anything about that right now.

I am tired, so tired. Whenever I am home, I am either asleep or working on shirts these days. Every weekend on my off days I spend a good chunk of that time writing for Fiverr or trying to make some headway no matter how small on a game or story. I try to always be hustling. Because if I don't, I am never going to make it to where I want to be.

But I am tired. I almost always feel like I need a nap, which is likely 50% sleep apnea at work and 50% depression dragging me down. And the more tired I am, the worse I feel, depression-wise.

Thursday I get to go on vacation for 10 days, the first vacation I have had all year. I had been spending time thinking about how much I was going to try and get done during it. That I needed to make the most of my time off. That I wanted to take five days and try and write for 8 hours a day, each day, to treat it like I would if I was finally able to do this full time.

But writing this has caused me to realize that I need rest. Ten days of nothing but curling up with good books, video games, and the LadyFriend. To go for long walks to clear my head. To not even think about the hustle. Because the hustle will be there when I come back. But if I don't get my mind right, then I may as well not bother.

One day Covid will pass. Then I will be able to get back into therapy. And then all my plans that this damn sickness ruined can be dusted off and made new. Eventually things will get back to normal, and the fire will fill my veins once more.

I just need to clear my veins of smoke first.

Better days are coming. It's a dark, heavy song right now, but I can hear the haunting optimism of the notes underlying the piece. Better days are coming, and then I can once more begin to write like I'm running out of time, before I actually do.