Tag: Depression


Insomnialus Maniacus

This is my fifth sleepless night in a week. If this doesn’t stop, I am sure to go legally insane and start biting people.*

I hate sitting down to write only because I have nothing else to do with my ADHD brain. I’d rather write from inspiration, or at least valiant work ethic. And I’d rather sleep at night.

I’m tired of being bullied by blank pages when I sit down to work. I’m tired of days ending abruptly and without closure, their tedium spilling over into each new morning. I’m tired of feeling like the only person on the planet who can’t manage to do simple things like sleep and be Martha Stewart.** Mostly, I’m just tired.

Anyone know a cure for insomnia/sporadic writer’s block/general slumpiness? I’m leaning towards warm milk spiked with LSD…

* Not necessarily in that order. ::Chomps at bit::

** Ornamental frozen napkin rings, anyone?


2 A.M. Delirium

Welcome to One Of Those Nights, the dark, sticky kind that prevents me from finding the magical hollow in my pillow that will quiet the clamoring from an entire unwritten week. Thus, my cure for insomnia: coaxing thoughts out of my tired brain and through my fingertips to freedom.

Of course, now that I’m out of bed and geared with laptop, I have no idea where to start. Every day is woven with countless emotions, a plethora of new vocabulary words, and a minute-hand steadily ticking off educational experiences. I couldn’t begin to accurately describe what my mind goes through on a daily basis, but I would hate to forget this time period… its unique mixture of confusion and satisfaction and — unbelievably — relaxation… the struggle of uprooting and the contentment of resettling.

Dan says I function much better as an Italian woman than I did as an American woman, and I think he’s right. All the repetitive daily activities that used to depress me seem to have a purpose here, even if that purpose is just practicing the language or getting some exercise. People’s genuine friendliness makes me want to leave the house and be part of society rather than hole up with my computer. Plus, I pretty much adore the built-in naptime that comes with life here. Every morning, I wake up a little less in the realm of the unfamiliar, and every night, I fall asleep feeling a little more at home.

I can feel this post teetering on the verge of incoherent rambling, so I’ll put my thoughts back to bed for the night. Stay tuned for next time, when I will try to write something that sounds a little less like 2 a.m. delirium…


The Growing Lack of Anticipation

I’ve been living inside of a to-do list the last several days. The result: far greater productivity and far less giddiness than I’d hoped. I miss the agonizing buzz of joy that used to haunt me for weeks leading up to kid’s camp. The wriggling, sleepless nights… the obsessive daydreams… the hilarity exploding like a string of grenades in my mind… I’d like it all back now, please.


Floating on Words

“You cannot be a good writer of serious fiction if you are not depressed.” ~Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

…Except that when I’m depressed, I’m much more inclined to turn into Eeyore and spend some quality time with my pillow than to write a gripping novel. Maybe that’s just me though.

This is not to say that I don’t get depressed after trying to write a poignant, provocative piece and ending up with half a paragraph of drivel (which happens more often than I’m willing to admit). However, when I successfully write even one sentence that I know is truly good, the exhilaration is incomparable. I imagine detectives feel that way when they solve tricky cases, and Little Leaguers when they score home runs, and all people when they find enough determination to do what they love. The feeling transcends gravity.

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