“Even the darkest night will end…

…and the sun will rise.”
– Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

I read a lot, you guys. Like, pretty well constantly having some sort of written word in front of my face. Books, games, blogs, backs of cereal boxes.

A lot.

One of the people that  I read about has the loveliest, most lyrical voice I have heard in a long while. She writes eloquently about her life, her depression, and her work to feel her way along in the world. It’s beyond moving.
Maybe it is especially so for me, as I see echoes of my younger self in her words. It could also be just that the work is stunning.

She wrote something this morning that grabbed my heart and shook it. Shook it like a terrier with a rat, to be frank. She spoke how her anxiety and depression were tearing her up, shredding her, exhausting her, making her feel worthless and unwanted; made her feel without hope.

I wish I could capture what she said, and I don’t want to link her without her permission (I’ve been recently told that that is not kosher). But, I wanted to put here the response I wrote.
It may be terrible poetry – but it is, one hopes, empathetic verse.

It’s not always like this.
There isn’t always a pile of unopened mail
there isn’t always laundry organized and still waiting.
Mundane tasks left behind while we sit and wonder
About all the work we have left undone.
You do good things.
But, better…
You are good.
You are worth every bit
of work and hope and love.
It isn’t about earning someone’s trust
and love and acceptance.
Fuck that. It’s
Remembering that you are loved and accepted and trusted.
Sometimes we forget
Sometimes we crumble
Sometimes we hover too long in one spot
Forgetting that we can strafe right, left, criss-cross
Zoom, soar, and dart.

——-

I am not, as you can see, much of a poetess. But I, like most writers, feel things especially hard. You’re having an emotion? Here, have it in spades. Have it in hundreds! (Quoth the brain).

Anywho, reading your words today gave me (as the kids say) all the feels. I sincerely hope that as you read people’s words back to your own, you can see the care and acceptance.

I hope these words find you better, find you safe, find you happy.

Having cast your own words out into the internet; a bottled message in a digital sea, if you will forgive the conceit, please accept this response as the outstretched hand that it is meant to be. 

“Have no fear of perfection – you’ll never reach it.” -Salvador Dalí

My mother just recently posted a meme to my Facebook wall. It was from a writing FB group, and the text of it read “Focus on the story, not the sentence.”

My response: “But…but….but, I must make that sentence perfect. And then, because I changed *it*, I must go back and make ALL the preceding sentences agree with what I just said.
And while I am doing that, another thought occurs to me about how to make this other particular c
lunky thing work better, and now I have to go through and make changes to the appropriate sentences that *it* touches on.
And that is how I can spend four hours on three paragraphs.”

Mom: “I think that may be classified as OCD!”

MRW I read over my own words.

I suspect other writers do this same thing, at least to an extent. The trick is, of course, to keep writing and writing and writing and then go back through for editing.

I have not yet managed that trick.
I think what I am doing now, sitting down at least every day or so and putting pen to paper (or, rather fingers to keyboard), is a good start. It is better than I had been doing while in the Pit of Despair.

 Anxiety sucks. It sucks all the will and life and words right out of you.

So, being able to sit down and write again is a blessing. And there has been a tickle of fiction mixed in there too; not just my normal whining that I do here.

"Lord bitch. You don't write. you whine."  [I maybe getting that quote a little wrong.]
“Lord bitch. You don’t write. You whine.”
[I may be getting that quote a little wrong.]
At any rate, writing = good.
Writing fiction sections = very good.
Learning to not overanalyze every single thing I do/write = also good.

As a way to motivate myself, I am going to try and put up some snippets of the words that I do write.
You know, and keep to the actual premise of this blog in the first place.

What would you do if I sang out of tune....
What would you do if you weren’t afraid? 

Soooo, Shake Your Shimmy

Between being sick and some personal issues, depression has been knocking on the door.

I woke up this morning and decided that I needed to sing this song* to myself. It’s like my normal self is singing to what my friend Rowan calls Traitor Brain. It’s that part of yourself that tells you the lies that anxiety and depression live on.

Sister, you’ve been on my mind
Sister, we’re two of a kind
So, sister, I’m keepin’ my eye on you.

I betcha think I don’t know nothin’
But singin’ the blues, oh, sister,
Have I got news for you, I’m something,
I hope you think that you’re something too

Scufflin’, I been up that lonesome road
And I seen alot of suns going down
Oh, but trust me,
No-o low life’s gonna run me around.

So let me tell you something Sister,
Remember your name, No twister
Gonna steal your stuff away, my sister,
We sho’ ain’t got a whole lot of time,
So-o-o shake your shimmy Sister,
‘Cause honey the ‘Shug’ is feelin’ fine.

___
ETA:  This does not mean that I can sing depression away. Doesn’t work like that. What it does mean is that a flutter of light appeared at the same moment that depression started to rear its terrible head.

* – Link included if you want to sing along.
Original song sung by Tata Vega

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