The last few weeks have been crazy.
The 10k a day thing didn’t go so well. Maybe it was the enormous word count I expected of myself. Maybe (most likely) it was the spiral of mania and depression hitting me like ocean waves, up and down, feeling good and productive, then feeling like the biggest piece of trash ever. Long story short, the 10k a day, finish my novella thing didn’t happen.
It was a good learning experience, though.
The long of it is, with crazy bad mental health, it’s impossible to get anything done. In a manic fit of productivity, I said to myself, “write 10k every day! You can do it! Work, work, work!” Sounds great, right? Not so much. I got two days of work done. I didn’t hit my 10k counts each day, but I was definitely working on the story, fixing the outline, researching occasionally, and then writing what I could. No sleep, no stopping, just me and the computer.
The bad part of this is that all of this ‘productivity’ really isn’t. I’m not able to think straight, much less write straight. I was a mess and more of a mess because I felt awful at not having hit 10k words a day like I’d told myself to.
And then the crash.
I slept forever. When I woke up, the reality of my lack of writing, my lofty goals, and real life issues weighed down on me. Those doubts came back. Those thoughts of not being good enough. Only I couldn’t tell it to shut up. I lay in bed and agreed. I wasn’t good enough. Who was I to think that I could write an entire book, much less eventually get it published? I’m awful. That’s only my thoughts about my writing. My non-writing life has been, well, saying it’s been hard is putting it lightly. My anti-depressants seemed to be making me worse not better which probably was the biggest factor in what came next.
I was done. Done with everything. Done with existing. Done with being a burden on everyone around me, on dealing with this endless struggle with my own mind, a struggle that never stopped and was so so exhausting. I was done with people’s disappointments; I was done with my own disappointments. I was done with not being able to function like a normal human being.
One suicide attempt and ER trip later, I was shipped off to a lovely (that’s sarcasm, folks) mental health facility. I stayed there nearly a week and had been stuck in the ER for three days before that. Too long to be locked up in a cage, but worth the stay if it meant getting better. The good side is they got me on new meds, meds that feel like they work. I feel really great right now and I’m back to working on my writing.
I need to be careful, though.
I can’t keep getting better only to push myself to the point of breaking down like I do.
I have to remind myself that I’m not a failure for the life I’ve lived.
I have to remember to focus on the things that matter, the things I love.
The rest, though it feels so immense, is minute in comparison to my happiness, my health, and what is really important to me- my writing,